Of Pyjamas and Ironic Harmonies
by TheVulpineHero1
Summary: A collection of bite-size Yuffentine moments. Always open to prompts. Updated every two days. Back in action!
1. Diary

A/N: Well, here we are! The start of my third drabble/shortfic/flashfic collection for Yuffentine. After Yuffentine ABC, a lot of people said they were sad it was ending, so I decided to make another. This one'll be a little different though. Here's the deal:

These things will be ranging from 50 words to...well, probably anywhere less than 1000 words. I won't be keeping as strict an eye on the word count as I normally would.

These will be, by nature, somewhat experimental at times. It keeps things fun, I find.

They will have a range of subjects- basically, anything I feel like, or anything that's suggested by the readers.

That last point is the important one. If you have a prompt, a situation, or just something you'd like to see, throw it my way. I'll take it as a challenge and write something as best I can for it. I'm always in need of good prompts and challenges, so don't be shy! I'll give you credit for the prompt if I use it, and I'll put priority on requests, so really, fire away.

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Disclaimer: I can hardly afford food. Buying the rights to FFVII is a little bit out of my league.

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The sun is seeping through the windows and leaks onto the floor in bright pools, but Vincent doesn't notice. He scratches his chin absently with the end of his pen, wondering what possessed him to do this in the first place. The page in front of him looks intimidatingly white, apart from the rules that shoot across like bullet trajectories. He thinks of writing that, but he has enough experience with bullets and doesn't particularly want them cluttering up his new, never-before-written-in notebook.

He doesn't actually like the notebook. It's a blocky, poorly made mishmash of bright covers and a type of paper that he wouldn't even tolerate in his bathroom. When he was a child, he'd wanted a _real _notebook, heavy and worn and leather bound, the type you'd find weighing down the bag of an old-school explorer. He'd wanted to write about plants and animals and machines, doing diagrams and descriptions, capturing something living in pen and ink.

Of course, like so many other things, that notion was unerringly romantic, and he forgot it when his boyhood passed. No one actually makes that kind of notebook anymore, and he's saddened by it. He wonders if complaining about your new notebook is a legitimate way to fill said notebook. He decides not. What exactly is considered _normal_ to write in one's diary?

He notices Yuffie hovering somewhere in the back of the room, and makes a motion with his head. She seems to understand, and moves forwards to hover at his shoulder.

"Hey, Vince. How's your post-coffin diary going?" she asks, looking at the notebook. Seeing it blank, she shakes it, as if that will somehow cause it to become something other than pristine and white. It reminds him of a child shaking an etch-a-sketch, but in reverse.

"Oh, I see." she grins. "Invisible ink, huh?"

She pads off, looking for Cloud or Nanaki. He's not sure if she was joking or not. He decides that maybe is a good answer.

He inserts the pen into his mouth and chews. Perhaps a post-coffin diary is simply too challenging for his stunted literary talents. Silently, his romantic notions and his boyhood creep up and tag team him. He smiles privately. Capture life in pen and ink.

He begins to write, the ink flowing from the nib in tight, tiny loops and curves. Soon, he has finished his first page, and turns to the next. India ink seeps into the pressed paper, and before long he's covered three pages. His writing sits on the paper lazily, and suddenly the notebook is not intimidating or white or pristine, but is his.

As an afterthought, he scrawls four words carelessly on the cover, cementing the book with purpose and promise.

_Yuffie Kisaragi Observation Journal

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A/N: Hmm...Weird start there. I had trouble with this prompt. I decided to go with slice of life.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	2. Tongue Twister

A/N: Remember, if you have any prompts, please throw them my way!

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Disclaimer: My name is not Square-Enix, nor Square-Soft. If it was, I would have been beat up in the playground so much.

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"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

"Peter Piper pipped a pett of pippled peppers."

Marlene tries to echo Yuffie's words like a parrot, but sounds more like a canary. Vincent carefully avoids staring as he sits in his corner booth at Tifa's bar and listens to Yuffie teaching Marlene tongue twisters.

The game starts again, and again, and again. There's been talk of peppers and tin cans and selling sea-shells by the sea (probably without a license, he notes). Yuffie sprawls backwards on the counter of the bar, sighing and huffing and doing anything but noticing how very exposed her legs are in those shorts, before jumping down and beginning the game again. Vincent, of course, was not looking at her legs. He was merely checking she didn't knock over any of Tifa's glasses accidentally. That was it.

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers." Yuffie says patiently.

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

Wait, was that his voice?

Yuffie turns, and smiles. She walks towards him with a cat's gleam in her eye. She leans forward so they're eye to eye, and her tongue passes over her lips in a way that he's_ sure _she doesn't realise is seductive.

"Now say it fast." she smirks, so close he can taste strawberries on her breath. The words seem to choke in the pit of his stomach, and his lips are strangely, achingly dry.

What exactly has he gotten himself into?

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A/N: I'd had this idea for a while, but I really wasn't sure where to put it. Here's a good place.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	3. Margin Of Error

A/N: Any requests or prompts will start from Chapter Five onwards, mmkay? Send them in!

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Disclaimer: No shirt, no shoes, no lawsuit.

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Only a fraction of a second can change the future.

In a fraction of a second, a bullet can fly through the air and hit warm flesh, twisting through the skin and ravaging the muscle.

In a fraction of a second, a foot can slide off by an inch, the ankle can snap and the unlucky fool attached to said foot can spiral down into the abyss.

In a fraction of a second, a madman can fall forever through clouds of mercury, breaking the boundaries of reality and edging over into the domain of madness.

Vincent Valentine lives in the present, the fractions of seconds ticking by like the tolling of bells and torn calenders. Yuffie watches, as each fraction of a second settles on his shoulders like another layer of dust and decay.

In a fraction of a second, a hand can grasp and pull upwards. A hand can save.

That's the fraction of a second she's waiting for.

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**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	4. Mutual Exclusivity

A/N: Prompts make the world go 'round.

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Disclaimer: Wanna make money from fanfiction? Become a bank robber. It works better.

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She's wasting breath chasing dandelion clocks in a subtle breeze, marching behind white wraiths to nowhere and back. Dreams caress her.

He's looking for pipes and bricks reaching for the horizon, for washed out concrete and silence that echoes in sterile prisons. Reality will repress.

Mutual exclusivity is a bitch.

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A/N: My first dribble (50 words). Kinda hard.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	5. Good Intentions

A/N: Everybody loves prompts!

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Disclaimer: Scientists are researching how to genetically engineer pigs with wings. They need to research faster.

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Yuffie Kisaragi does not like clothes. From a professional perspective, of course. For a budding ninja, clothes are a pitfall that so many succumb to. They rustle and tear and _constrict_. Of course, they _can _be used for camouflage, but Yuffie Kisaragi is almost sure that if you're a good enough ninja, you don't even need clothes to be camouflaged. It's all a matter of being one with your surroundings.

Yuffie Kisaragi is a skilled and curious ninja, and one that loves to experiment.

When Vincent Valentine puts the key in his front door after going to the shop to practice purchasing coleslaw, he does not expect to find Yuffie Kisaragi sitting naked on his sofa.

Yuffie does not expect to find that Vincent likes coleslaw.

With the outer calm of an ex-Turk but the inner panic of Barret in any shop that sells anything breakable, he decides that the best (and most gentlemanly) thing he can do is to ignore the barely legal girl who's trying very hard to be at one with a dead cow draped over a few cushions. He goes about his business without even a passing glance at the woman whose alabaster skin shines in his gloomy apartment.

Because of this, Yuffie Kisaragi now believes that being naked and at one with your surroundings can make you invisible.

Sadly, Tifa Lockhart does not appreciate it when an 'invisible' woman casually walks behind the bar at happy hour and pours herself a beer.

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**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	6. Puffballs Wanted

A/N: This prompt was from Szahara again, and has a rather funny story behind it; apparently, it was one of the random 'are you human' checkers they use for the login.

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Disclaimer: If I possessed the cast of FFVII, I'd be an evil spirit. Luckily, I don't, so quit looking up exorcists in the phone book.

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Vincent Valentine is a man of dignity. He is a man of dignity who's dating a woman who's less that half his chronological age and ten years junior to his biological age, but he is a man of dignity all the same. And as a man of dignity, there are some things he absolutely refuses to do. He refuses, on Halloween, to don a fake moustache and refer to himself only as 'The Baron'. He refuses to allow his much-younger partner to take off his mantle and towel-whip Cloud with it. And he especially refuses to sit down with her and watch any movie made by someone who begins with D and ends in Y, with over a hundred different kinds of cute, talking animal _evil_ in between.

He is, however, a reasonable man of dignity. And as such, 'groceries' have been left off his list of things to refuse to do.

Which is a great shame, because some of the things his much-younger partner asks him to buy are questionable at best. She demands bags of sugar-laden lollipops, a stationary set so pink that it may well have caused Sephiroth's insanity, and a spare bra small enough to fit her svelte physique.

As he unloads his basket, he reflects that none of these are quite as bad as the final item on her list. He considers taking it back, because he is a man of dignity. And there is _no_ place in the house of a man of dignity for 'Ultra Sparkly Sugar Puffballs' breakfast cereal.

But he allows them to ride the conveyor, because he is a man of dignity and he refuses to be embarrassed by his purchases. Consequently, each item causes the cashier's eyebrows to rise ever higher, until they sit proudly on top of her head, and threaten to fall down the other side and end up positioned on her shoulders.

"Shopping for your daughter, sir?" she asks, in that tone which is polite and yet incredibly offensive at the same time, and which only cashiers and waiters can ever truly master.

"No." he says, fingering his box of sugar coated puffballs. "My partner."

"Oh." the cashier says, unsure. She seems to want Vincent to say something.

"She's quite a bit younger than me." he says, gesturing to the box. The cashier looks at him like she's an English Literature student and the plot for Lolita has just been uploaded straight into her head.

Vincent Valentine is a man of dignity. A man of dignity who now refuses to shop for groceries.

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A/N: Lolita is a book by...some russian (Vladimir Nabokov), and it's about a 12-year-old girl who has sex with an older man. Lolita was a popular name when it was published. It isn't anymore.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	7. Fever Dreams

A/N: This prompt was from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Fanfiction. It's only _slightly_ illegal.

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She's drinking like a desert, lips and fingers stained from cherries she didn't know how to eat, because she's never eaten cherries before and how was she supposed to know that if you bit into cherries they bled like little purple hearts and did all cherries taste of copper and salt? She shivers but doesn't shiver, and her body is convinced there's a poison inside it, and maybe there is, and maybe the poison is her soul, and her soul's getting all bitchy at her body because _it never lets her have any fun, _and they're playing chess with heavy artillery inside her and neither of them know the rules. She's gasping through the copper-purple-heartblood-cherry in her mouth, as if the air around her knows all the answers and it won't tell them to her and maybe, just maybe, it's gonna be too late before she figures them out, and what will Vinny say if he sees her like this?

And he does see her like this, because he's above her and around her and underneath her, like the sky and the earth and something else that isn't the sky and the earth which she hasn't decided a name for yet. But he's stained, stained by the cherries on her fingers, and it runs down his cheeks from his eyes and his eyes are cherries too, don't you know? And she's been trying to eat them for so long but he wouldn't let her, because he didn't want her to get to the little stone in the centre and break her teeth. But maybe if he'd let her, she would've known how to eat cherries and this wouldn't have happened and she'd have no teeth but she wouldn't be sitting on his lap, coughing, spitting up her life because her body thinks her soul is poison and it wants it _out._

And the cherry-tears that dripped down his face are drying black and cracked, and his hair is wild and snarled like little fishing hooks to catch her soul when it comes out, but she won't let it come out, she _won't_, but it hurts so damn much.

With a final, wrenching cough, she retches. Her soul stays in, but maybe it doesn't, because she feels like she's lost something, and she never really gets it back. And she gasps, because the air knows all the answers and it won't tell her, and it's too late. And what would Vinny think if he could see her now? And he does see her now, because he's above her and around her and underneath her, but in another way he can't see her now, because he's lying below her, the blood drying on his face and his chest, his eyes closed with finality. And he never let her eat the cherries in his eyes, and now she'll never get to, because he's hidden them somewhere she can't follow; the air knows the answers, because Vinny's the air now, and he always knows the answers. But he can't tell them to her.

Not anymore.

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A/N: Yeah, not the most inventive way to use the prompt, I know, but I've been wanting to experiment with realism and more disturbing imagery for a while now, and I think this came off quite well.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	8. Leather Pants And Short Shorts

A/N: This is a second prompt from Szahara again. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: How to sum up fanfiction? I'll just quote.

"Screw the money, I have rules! Wait, lemme try that again..." (Seto Kaiba, Yu-Gi-Oh The Abridged Series)

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He sometimes wonders why life can't be more...well, normal. He tries to do things like a normal person, he really does, and sometimes he even gets it right. Until Yuffie tries it too, and she refuses outright to be normal, so he's guilty by association.

It wouldn't be so bad if she hadn't figured out his intervals. One chance meeting and now every half a month she was there without fail, mocking him with her very existence. He kept his eyes closed to avoid her, but she'd find some way to rouse his attention.

Almost on cue, a small hand reached across and grabbed his left pectoral.

His eyes shot open at the invasion of privacy. He was angry. That didn't change the fact that Yuffie was sitting five feet away in her knickers and bra, and had a hand positioned directly over his left nipple (he shuddered to even think the word). Unfortunately, the wasn't a whole lot he could do when he was in naught but his boxers.

The launderette was turning into one of his least favourite places in the world.

"So, Vince. As I was sayin'. How the hell do you put _leather_ in the washing machine without bad stuff happening? Doesn't it need, like, expert treatment?" she asks. Her hand hovers over his chest, ready to goose him if he ignores her. He sighs.

"And who, in this day and age, knows more about leather than I do, Yuffie?"

She giggles, as he expected, at a joke she wanted him to make but which he doesn't himself understand. Strange child.

Yuffie's machine dings. She only uses this launderette because she can't be bothered to learn how to work her own washing machine. So whenever he walks in, she's inevitably sitting there half naked, watching a machine full of what appear to be short-shorts whizzing around at high speed.

She rummages around for a while, and he averts his eyes. He can do without seeing what colour her pants are (flashes of pink and yellow dance burst into his mind), or the size of her...receptacles. He tries, but she insists on showing him.

"Vince, _loooook_!" she wails, holding up a slip of fabric. "My bra shrank in the wash!"

He considers his options for a moment. The part of him that was a Turk (the part that identifies with Reno) is bursting to say something, and it may just dissuade her from sharing his bi-weekly clothes wash with him. So, he says it.

"I don't see any difference." he sniffs, despite the fact that the aforementioned bra would now be better suited to a child's doll.

His machine dings, like the tolling of a bell, and she immediately marches over and starts rummaging. Before long, she pulls out a pair of his leather trousers. He wonders idly what she intends to do, before he sees the smirk on her face, and her left arm retreating and twirling-

She whips him. With his own sopping wet leather trousers. He's so surprised that he doesn't dodge, and wet leather is awfully heavy. It catches him full in the face (never before has he had his nose buried in the crotch of a gentleman's trousers), and the momentum carries him over and behind the bench on which he's been sitting.

Yuffie smirks, and follows him with her eyes. As he raises himself to his knees, she can see the muscles in his buttocks shifting. "Oh yeah. _That's_ the good stuff."

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A/N: From migraine inducing surrealism to migraine inducing crack. It was difficult to turn such a cracky prompt into something serious, though.

On other notes, I have no idea if leather can be put in a washing machine and if bras do, indeed, shrink. Just pretend they can. Or pretend that it's a super washing machine injected with mako and Jenova cells. Or something.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	9. Word Association

This prompt was from Anzer'ke. (Interestingly, the only people to give me prompts so far have both had z's in their pen-names. This is bad, because I physically cannot remember any word with a z or a q in it, so I have to copy and paste their names every time. Famine and pestilence everywhere, but it all takes a back-seat to that.)

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Disclaimer: Look at the world's 100 richest people. None of them write fanfiction. Coincidence or not?

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"You're a pain in the ass, Vince. You do know that, right?" she says conversationally. They're 'chillaxing', apparently, which translates to 'sitting in deckchairs on the roof.'

"Yup. Whenever I look at you, I automatically think 'pain in the ass'." she drawls on, sipping a lemonade. (He refused to 'hook her up with' a beer.)

Still, it hasn't been a bad day. The setting sun leaves a faint orange tang in the sky, and his drink leaves one on his tongue. All is well.

"Well, that, and 'Winnie the Pooh Boxer Briefs.'"

He protests. But he has to check first.

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A/N: An _actual_ drabble, the first of the collection if I'm not mistaken. The last bit is based on a general rule of thumb: all guys have at least one questionable pair of underwear. (I don't own Winnie The Pooh, by the way. In case someone's disclaimer watching.) It wasn't very inventive, but I was having major difficulty with making this prompt into something unexpected. **Edit: **Due to me editing and forgetting to wordcount again after, this chapter originally only had 97 words (which Anezer'ke pointed out. Although, I forgot to ask why they bothered to count). I have, however, added three more words. Points for anyone who spots which ones.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	10. Growth

A/N: I decided to do my own prompt this time. Y'know, just because. Oh, by the way. I should probably clear this up now: there is no continuity to these. They're at different stages in the relationship (or non-relationship), different points in time, different themes. Some of them might have continuity in relation to each other (I'll mark them in a sequence if so), but apart from that, they're pretty much unrelated. If you need a canon timeline to put them in, most would probably fit in post-DoC.

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Disclaimer: If I don't put these at the top of the chapter, Square busts out the SWAT team.

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It's been too long since he's done this, he realises. Unfortunately, he realises this just _after_ he's sliced open his face. He snarls, and tries again, and another cut opens up.

Despite hacking his face to pieces, the razor hasn't even touched the light mist of facial hair hanging onto his chin. It's soft, almost downy, and he dislikes it immensely. He wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't blonde. Why on earth was his facial hair _blonde_? It didn't even make sense.

"Hey, Vince. You done yet?" she says, draping herself around his shoulders and reaching up to feel his face. She giggles as she strokes his chin. He gulps.

"You look like a teenager with that fuzz. No length, no colour, nothing. You'd better learn to shave again, unless you want a wizard beard. You'd look weird with a wizard beard." she babbles, grabbing his razor and drawing it lightly over the skin. It's almost infuriating how she manages to do it without opening even the slightest tear- and from behind, too.

"Don't worry about it. You were in that coffin for a while, y'know?" she grins as she plops the razor down and dabs his cut with tissue. "Besides, I've had practice. You don't get legs this smooth without some pretty awesome shaving technique. Also, I'm good with knives."

He wants to thank her, but it's too embarrassing. He never grew so much as a hint of stubble when he was in his coffin, but now his face had decided it was time to make up for lost ground.

"Hey, at least you can actually grow a beard. Not like Cloud 'Hey-have-you-seen-where-my-puberty-went?' Strife." she giggles. He grins, and she runs her hand across his chin again.

"Mm. Never was a fan of the whole 'rugged stubble' thing, but you just might change my mind." she smiles. Despite the fact that he still feels ridiculous, it warms his insides. He enjoys the brief moments when Yuffie decides to be romantic.

"Now get in the shower, bitch. I'm gonna show you _exactly_ how well I shave these legs."

So much for romance.

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A/N: No videogame character (at least not any I've seen) ever cuts themselves shaving. That was pretty much the reason I wrote this. I planned it to go a little differently, but it still came out kinda good. It's a pretty intimate and trusting act, so I guess it counts as fluff. (Don't know about you guys, but I wouldn't trust a ninja with a razor near my throat.)

On a side note, I now have a current schedule of requested Pyjamas updates on my profile. I tell people when their prompts will be anyway, but if you wanna see what's coming up, you now can.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	11. Leather Pants And Short Shorts II

A/N: This was a request from Circle of Phoenix. Always happy to oblige!

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Disclaimer: Statement A: I own Final Fantasy. Statement B: Square owns me in court. Statement B overrules Statement A.

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There's really no other way of saying it. Vincent Valentine is utterly befuddled by white goods. And as he paces the aisles of his local electrical shop, surrounded by looming plastic boxes and haunted by instruction manuals as thick as his arm, he would prefer to be almost anywhere else in the world. Except the laundrette.

It's a problem that arose from his Turk days, really. Back then, Turks were highly privileged. They could afford to get their suits laundered by lower ranking employees- a perk with the unexpected side effect of making most Turks incapable of using any form of washing machine. It may have been one more attempt to tie the Turks to Shinra indefinitely (they could hardly quit if they couldn't even wash their own clothes), but that kind of underhanded possessiveness was more the style of Rufus Shinra, as opposed to his Old Man.

And, of course, he'd used the perk. More often than not, there was blood on the suit, and he had no desire to clean it. There was always blood on the suit, in fact, whether it was causing deep red stains in the double breast, or whether it was deeper, stained into the very fibres of the poor fool who wore the suit. Once you were a Turk, you always had blood on your hands, no matter how hard you scrubbed, and there was always blood on your suit. It went with the job.

He left off his musing of the past to examine one of the washing machines he was supposedly shopping for. Spin cycles, energy requirements, optimal settings for each and every material under the sun, safety protocols in case of leaks, barrel dimensions...The details leapt out at him, trying to squish themselves into his brain, but merely lying on the surface like raindrops on an umbrella. Such was the way of modern advertising, he felt. Why couldn't things be more simple?

Eventually, he gave up. It wasn't a great surprise. Using a machine at the laundrette was all very well and good, but they were different beasts when you had to live with and maintain them. And with Vincent being Vincent, he simply couldn't bear the thought of asking an employee for help.

Independently of him, the part of his mind that was still Turk began an analysis of the consequences. He'd mortgaged his a portion of his life to sitting in a building in his underwear, watching his clothes whiz around in boiling water. It would cost him a small fortune in the long term. And worst of all, he would be doing this activity with Yuffie Kisaragi, meaning that he now shared something with her: the inability to use a washing machine.

He briefly considered going back in and asking that employee. But thought better of it. As he trudged back to his house, his Turk mind started wondering how being with an unclothed Yuffie Kisaragi was a _bad_ thing.

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A/N: Once a Turk, always a Turk, I guess. Even Vince's inner Turk is not immune to the allure of nearly-naked women.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	12. Fame And Fortune

A/N: This prompt was from Szahara again...again. On a side note, I have to thank people for the volume of both prompts and support for this collection. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I would own Final Fantasy VII, but that would mean I'd have to provide a litter tray for Barret. To hell with _that_.

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There are situations in which being famous is a bad thing. These situations include, but are not limited to, when you're snapped punching another country's foreign minister for being a sexist pig.

They also include those rare occasions when you meet up with other famous friends and decide to get very drunk indeed. However, by far the worst of these occasions is when the paparazzi find your old library card in the bin, and see that the last book you took out was the Kama Sutra. And that, because library cards contain dates, they find out that you took it out at the age of fifteen and haven't returned it in the five years since.

In situations such as that, fame becomes a definite burden. Especially when the press find it appropriate to allocate you the nickname of 'Reverse Wheelbarrow'. And _especially _when you have to explain it to your new boyfriend.

"Well, Vince, they call me Reverse Wheelbarrow because of...well, what the Kama Sutra is about." she hedges, her face bright red.

"What exactly _is_ the Kama Sutra about?" he asks, face impassive. The only thing red about him is his eyes.

"Well...Y'know." she giggles nervously.

"No, Yuffie. Plainly I don't know, otherwise I wouldn't be asking." he retorts, with a hidden smile.

"Ugh. It's about sex, Vinnie. Sex, okay? It's a book of sex." she all but shouts. An awkward silence envelops them.

Eventually, he stands up, and says in measured tones, "I see. So, Reverse Wheelbarrow is an allusion to some sexual position?"

"Gah. Yes." she says, and is about to launch into a barrage of excuses involving her dear old dad having some 'problems' with the palace maid, when he fixes her with a gaze of quiet disappointment.

"You know, Yuffie", he says, suddenly stern, "that it is unfair to accept a nickname you haven't earned?"

It takes her a few clicks to work out what he means. And by that time, he's already kissing her.

Days afterwards, the headline shouts that 'Reverse Wheelbarrow Kisaragi apologises to Foreign Minister.' Vincent peruses the headline with a subdued grin.

"Hah. Earning the nickname doesn't make it any less embarrassing." she huffs. "And now I have to pay the late fees on that damn book."

"I see. It's funny, really." he shrugs.

"What? That I have to pay 3000 gil to give back the book that made me a laughing stock?" she asks tersely.

"No. That you would _actually_ believe that I didn't know what information the Kama Sutra contains. You're very attractive when you blush." he deadpans.

Next day, the headlines reads: 'Reverse Wheelbarrow breaks Boyfriend's nose. Boyfriend's library card found."

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A/N: Just wanted to have a little fun with that one. Fairly plotless. I should probably mention that, due to being unable to research the actual Kama Sutra, I have defaulted to making stuff up. It _sounds_ plausible, anyways.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	13. Thriller

A/N: The idea for this came from Circle of Phoenix; I gave it a title. And, y'know, wrote it up.

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Disclaimer: It's depressing to think that these snarky little disclaimer comments are the only things in this story that I actually own.

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She's not afraid of monsters.

She's not afraid of the monsters that creep and crawl, because she's a ninja and ninja creep and crawl better than anyone.

She's not afraid of the monsters that have tentacles and mutations and goo, because she already met Jenova and put a shuriken up its butt. (Well, what she hopes was its butt. Kinda hard to tell.)

She's not even afraid of clowns, mainly because she can't understand why _anyone_ is afraid of clowns. Apart from the fact that they're generally middle-aged men wearing a ton-and-a-half of make up. Which is kinda unsettling, but it's a lifestyle choice and she's not about to rag on it.

Which begs the question of why she even bothers watching horror movies. If she's not afraid of the monsters (and she most definitely isn't, no matter what anyone says), then why? It's obviously not for the plot- boy meets girl, boy gets mulched, girl gets gun, girl gets mulched, congratulations, you lost the game.

It's not for the soundtrack. Tortured screams, tense breakdowns and squishy impacts are, in her opinion, less than equal to a spot of techno. And even more than less than equal to some good ninja-ish themes.

On the television, the movie has just reached 'boy gets mulched' stage. He's just been pitched from a three floor building by a malfunctioning hospital bed. Into a swamp. How very realistic.

Still, despite the fact that she's not scared of monsters or swamps or even hospital beds, as the boy on-screen thrashes and draws the waiting monster to himself like a fly in a sticky, swampy web, her hand creeps ever closer to her mouth, and the goosepimples on her arms bristle treacherously. Her spine tingles dangerously, telling her to _get the hell out of here_.

It's weird, because if she met the monster in real life, she wouldn't be afraid. Hell, she lives with a guy who has a giant dog _thing_ living in his soul. But, there's the deal: she's not scared of monsters, but horror movies turn her into a blubbering little girl.

And why? Because, of course, horror movies are designed specifically as weapons of mass destructions against _her_ and people like her. They're designed to play on imagination, and imagination is what Yuffie Kisaragi has in spades.

Something cool and wet brushes her shoulder.

Immediately her hand flicks out and catches the swamp monster in the gut. It doubles over in pain, and her leg shoots straight into the air, then crashes down on the monster's neck. It coughs and splutters in what she assumes to be rage, but she's already on its back, pinning it down, her hands pulling its long, black hair-

Wait, what?

She looks down, and discovers that she's sitting on Sir Dog-Breath himself. His hair is wet, fresh from the shower he took to avoid watching TV, because: "Honestly, Yuffie. Horror movies? I am, by far, the scariest thing present in this house."

He grumbles because, as much as he liked the carpet when he bought it, it isn't the most delicious thing in the world. For a moment, she feels sorry for him, because he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Yuffie, when are you planning to let me get up?" he asks tersely.

The moment passes. She grabs a cushion from the sofa, and starts beating him over the head with it. You can't be too careful when it comes to swamp monsters.

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A/N: Not sure I managed to get that idea down as well as I wanted to. Oh well. Oh, by the way: who lost in the course of this story? You know what I'm talking about.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	14. Bad Luck

A/N: This was originally going to be something different, until Szahara again mentioned wanting a Turk Vincent drabble. I changed my original plans because I immediately connected it with the prompt I was gonna use, so here it goes.

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Disclaimer: No beer and no ownership of copyright license to fictional characters within a video-game setting make Homer something something.

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A ten-gil piece glints between his fingers. He twists it over one knuckle and then the next, before flipping it back. Coin tricks impress no-one in this day and age, but he still does them. He has reasons. He always does.

He moves with an aggressive, laid-back kind of swagger, like a shark toying with a goldfish. One foot in front of the other, with a swing in the step that makes it hard to predict where he's going next. He makes no effort to conceal the pistol that bulges from the breast of his suit.

Here in the slums, there are people who would kill for the ten-gil piece in his hand. But here in the slums, he is king. King of the rats and the scum, but king nonetheless.

He idly considers going for a drink. He could get better booze above the plate, true, but then he'd have to sit with the other Shinra lackeys, the ones who did desk work and shuffled papers and looked at him with that sickening cross between fear and respect. Filthy looks sour his drink, he decides, and makes for his favourite bar. At least he can get rough with the filth there.

The barkeep looks at him and a smile creeps across the broken mouth adorning his face. Although it could just be that Turks are good for business (one Turk would usually have the money to outdrink three slum drunks), but Vincent gets the feeling that the barkeep likes him. He makes the usual joke about wanting a martini, and the barkeep laughs and places the usual whiskey on the rocks in front of him.

The barkeep wasn't always an ugly man. The cuts, scrapes and lumps that adorn his face have been bought over the years with many 'Midgar Credit Cards'. It was a trend in the more thuggish of barflies; if you can't give them money, give them a broken nose.

Vincent sips his whiskey. It's good whiskey, but that doesn't surprise him. The bars in this area keep one stock of booze for the punters and another for the Turks. There's a guy drinking the usual crappy whiskey three stools to the left, and Vincent considers swapping, just to see what it tastes like.

The lights are dim. Mako power was convenient and cheap, but not for the slums. They got charged about twice the over-plate rate for it, so most got those worthless generators that could supply about enough electricity to play the first few bars of the Shinra anthem on a low-energy radio. He actually likes it; his blue suit morphs and becomes black in the half-light, and fewer people spot the confident bearing that marks him out as one of Shinra's elite 'human trash' disposal service.

He's almost sad that this will almost certainly be the last time he drinks at this bar. He's getting a transfer to Nibelheim soon, to aid a rookie scientist called Hojo; something about a biological experiment that needed to be kept secret. He applied for the transfer because the stench of corruption in Midgar made his stomach turn.

It was better before he became a Turk, he decides. Then wonders if there's some correlation between him becoming a Turk and the corruption that seeps through the drains and the sewers of Midgar. Blaming himself for things he didn't do is a childhood foible he hasn't quite grown out of. But he can't quite remember what life was like before he became a Turk, come to think of it. There's something there, but it's fuzzy and broken and-

A glass breaks, and immediately the past is thrown away once more. Raised voices join in broken harmony, and someone shouts in pain.

He folds himself off the stool, one hip deliberately cocked in arrogance. The mini-brawl that's started near the door of the bar stops for a moment to take notice.

"Pfft. Look, Larry. Someone wants to be a hero." jeers one, a big, thuggish, potato-headed man.

Vincent picks his glass off the counter, and drains it. Then, carefully, he holds it at arm's length, one eye closed like an artist trying to appraise a piece of work. The man's face appears, refracted and warped in the glass.

With a twitch of his left hand, the man's face shatters, and Vincent is left holding the remains of the glass. A few half-hearted streams of blood trickle down his fingers. The man's expression changes, to show a terror that he does not yet understand.

"And to think", he murmurs, still holding the shattered glass with crushing pressure, "that I was going to drink somewhere else tonight. Bad luck for you, I guess."

His right hand flips the ten-gil piece into the air. It rings out as it tumbles head after tail after head through the air. When it hits the peak of its arc, he's already shooting.

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A/N: That was just me exploring Turk Vincent a little. I might continue this little section some more later into the collection, because we just don't know enough about Vincent's Turk years. (Well, I don't, anyway).

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	15. Extravaganza

A/N: This prompt was from Anzer'ke, one of two designed specifically to exploit my weakness for the letter z. Still haven't seen any Q prompts, though. Thank goodness.

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Disclaimer: You think Square will give me Final Fantasy VII if I go round and ask them nicely?

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He chases back the ache with a bolt of molten whiskey, straight from the bottle. He can't get drunk, but when the alcohol burns in his throat it almost distracts him from the burning in his stomach, in his fingertips, in his head.

_The sky above Wutai was a pantomime of colour and fire. Fireworks erupted like angry scars over the night sky, bursting into brilliance then slowly fading, but never really seeming to disappear altogether. Despite the explosions in the night air, the balcony was surprisingly cool, a haven for those who had partied a little too much. And for them._

"_It's beautiful, Yuffie." he said. He wanted to add something, but he didn't know what. The idea remained unfinished, like so many of his thoughts. For a second, he considered drawing her into his arms, but something stopped him. Instead, he leant over the balcony, tilting his head to the heavens._

_And suddenly, it happened. The brightest star of the festival burst into life. A molten blaze of fire, hanging like a second sun in the night sky, threatening the moon itself. But the fire started to fall away, and there it was; cast in blazing fire, Leviathan, guardian of Wutai. The people cheered._

"_Do you see what I see?" he asked, pointing to the dragon._

"_No." Her tones were like moonlight, solemn and shimmering. "Because I see a future."_

He had been expecting it sooner or later, but not for years, and not like that. It was her solemness that really stuck in his throat, the feeling that she'd thought it out and planned it and acted on it. It just wasn't like her, to calculate so coolly. Maybe he'd been blind to not see it coming earlier- the hesitation had been in her step all evening.

"_How long has it been since we started dating, Vincent? Six months. And you haven't so much as laid a finger on me." she said. There was something heavy about her. His fingers tighten on the balcony railing._

"_I don't feel secure, Vince. I don't feel like you want me, like you're going to be there. I'm getting older. I have to build a life, sooner or later, and I was kinda hoping I could build it around...well, you. But..." she trailed off, her fingers dancing circles over the railings, "I need commitment before I can do that."_

"_What are you trying to say?" he asked. Something was screaming in his ears, telling him he was an idiot, barking orders to grab her hands right now or do **something **other than standing there like a gargoyle._

"_I see a future, Vince, and my future is Wutai. These people need me, and it's the place I want to be. Wutai will always be here for me. It won't walk away when it gets bored, or find someone else. I can trust this place." she whispered. She sounded unsure, as though she was working it out as she went. That should have been a signal to him, to jump in, to stop the cogs that were driving her forwards on her path. It's like she's a machine, not herself any more, and he has to try and save her from this-_

"_I understand, Yuffie." he said, and realised that he'd just signed over his biggest shot at happiness._

He groans as the last few drops of whiskey slide down his throat. Now he has to find another bottle, and he doesn't want to go back out there, into the lights of the fireworks. He doesn't want to be in this place, the place that took Yuffie from him. Only the cats bother him here, and he's okay with that. He sighs, and wraps himself in the familiar musty scent of his mantle. Sleep comes quickly, and dreams soon follow. He dreams of moonlight, of shimmering fire-serpents that swim through space. And, most of all, how to get her back.

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A/N: Decided to go with a more angsty edge this time. Just because the prompt sounded happy.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	16. Home Sweet Home

A/N: This prompt was from Serenbach. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: In Hell, copyright lawyers have tommy-guns.

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'Home Sweet Home' is a mantra that she rejects. It isn't because that's the kind of thing you find hung on the walls of old people's homes, crocheted by prissy little grandmas. And it isn't even because her dad's an ass and her house is just a little to close to him for comfort, so she's had to move into Vinny's apartment. It's because she gets paranoid.

"Checked the locks, Vince?" she asks, throwing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in her mouth.

"No." he says, joining her on the sofa. Her popcorn misses her mouth this time.

"What? Come on, Vince. If _I_ were a pervert on the prowl for a new TV and a few pairs of women's panties, I could break into here by seven different ways and in twenty seconds flat for four of them." she grimaces.

"Well, Yuffie, if you _were _on the prowl for a television you already own and a few pairs of your own underwear, you would have to get by _me_." he says, amused.

"Even Vincent 'Gun Nut' Valentine has to sleep sometime." she pouts.

"Not if Yuffie 'Housebreaker' Kisaragi is entertaining him at nights." he smiles darkly.

Her cheeks flush. "What, you really think a thief will get spooked because we're doing the horizontal tango? Get real, Vince."

"Well, seeing as we have not been burgled as of yet, the strategy appears to be working." he smirks. She hits him with a pillow.

"You're too much, y'know?" she sighs, padding off to check the locks in the kitchen. When she returns, he's eating a slice of cake that was in the refrigerator two seconds ago. She throws him a glare and a pout, and like a true gentleman he passes the rest of the cake over to her.

"This merely proves my point." he says, as she accidentally smears cake on her face. "The only person talented enough to steal from me is you, and the only person brave enough to steal from you is me. This house is completely safe."

She sighs, and nods in defeat. He has a good point; although _she_ could get in and out, few thieves are as brave and ballsy as Yuffie Kisaragi.

"Still, we should ensure the house is locked securely. I believe it best that your choice in underwear remains a private affair." he says, before folding himself off the couch.

She chokes on her cake.

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A/N: Just a fun little twist on that idea, and a nod to the theory that people judge others based on themselves. Also, panty raids.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	17. Zoo Version 2

A/N: Right. Well, I wasn't happy with Zoo, and you guys weren't happy with Zoo, so I've decided to rewrite it. Still Yuffie-centric, although not quite a Yuffie solo. And still quite character-study-ish.

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Disclaimer: Insert disclaimer here.

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It wasn't as if she didn't like animals. She loved them. There was a house full of cats at the bottom of the hill and she spent as much time there as possible, bringing food whenever possible. And it wasn't like she was a mad cat lady- she didn't knit cat-clogs for Mr. Fuzzums or anything weird like that. She just liked to watch them move.

There was something powerful about cats that didn't strike her about many other animals. The closest thing she'd seen were birds, freewheeling in the sky and diving headlong towards the ground before whirling away, leaving a free dollop of bird manure on your washing whilst they were at it. But with birds, you couldn't see the muscles rippling under the feathers, the mechanics underneath the movement. She liked the way that a cat's shoulders dropped when it was striding imperiously along the wall, how the legs seemed to coil like springs before a jump. She liked the teeth, like bone needles, designed to hold fast whilst the claws did their work. She liked how they watched, cold and imperious, searching for any weakness whilst maintaining the façade of helplessness.

But, no matter what, the zoo held nothing for her. True, there were tigers, and the first time she'd seen one her jaw dropped. The sheer size and immensity of the thing! The regal stride, the rippling flesh! It was the aspirations of martial artists incarnate, a strength that could move the world, the essence of _her _Wutai.

Or so she'd thought. It didn't take her long to wonder why, if the tiger was so strong, it had been captured by humans. And suddenly, the regal stride became mere bravado, and the rippling muscles became useless relics of freedom long gone. And it struck her as ironic that, this _too_ was Wutai. Imprisoned and kept for tourists to gawk at, their grand traditions doomed to a slow atrophy, just like the tiger's useless muscles.

She was to realise, later in life, that the metaphor was sourly apt. The tiger would creep closer and closer to extinction, despite its power and majesty. But the tiny house-cat would also thrive by choosing captivity. That was what her father wanted; the tiger of Wutai would live happily in the house of Shinra, with false purrs and mercenary affection. Like a cat, it would watch for any sign of weakness, and strike home.

But Yuffie knew. The cats she knew were powerful creatures, but they couldn't live for themselves. They depended on humans to survive, and under her father, Wutai would become dependent on Shinra's blood money and protection.

It was all a bit too much for her to grasp when she was young. It was only now, years later and with the benefit of retrospect, that she realised how important that visit to the zoo had been for her. It had given her the desire to be like the tiger in the wild; strong, free, self sufficient. Without that, she'd never have journeyed out into the world, never met Cloud and company, and never achieved all she had.

She licked her lips, and allowed herself a catlike grin. Vincent raised his eyebrows and went back to doing his WRO paperwork. He wondered, sometimes, what went on in her head. He was still wondering when she stalked over, haughty and imperious, and told him unequivocally that they were going for coffee later that afternoon. He'd never felt quite so much like a mouse.

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A/N: Grr. I'm not overly happy with this version, either. Stupid z-word prompts. Still, I feel it's a little better than the previous one.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	18. Rust

A/N: The concept for this prompt was from Mistress9ine, and the title was by yours truly.

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Disclaimer: Musical Disclaimer #2: That! That! Dude looks like a lady! (But no, I don't own Sephiroth, or anyone else for that matter.)

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The bar's entrance was marked by tendrils of smoke drifting outwards into the winter air, like a dragon's cavernous maw. But outside was the stinging sea wind of Junon, where only fools and seagulls would willingly stay when the November chill hit the air.

"...I've never worn a thong." Rude's voice boomed.

Vincent groaned. It was bad enough that they were even _in _Junon, and worse that they'd picked the current Turk's favourite watering hole as shelter from the salt air outside. But that Reno, Rude and Elena would just so happen to be drinking there at the time? That was just bad luck.

The problem, of course, was that Yuffie and Reno got along like a proverbial house on fire. Both youthful, both cocky, both much more dangerous than they appeared. Put in the same room together, they had a habit of laying waste to the furniture, the building, and society at large. Put in the same room with a steady supply of alcohol, only one thing could happen: a drinking game.

He had half a mind to drink Yuffie's shots for her because she had such a low alcohol tolerance, but that would lead to arguments with her over whether he thought she was a child. And those were arguments he didn't want to be having with Reno around. Of course, it wasn't like he felt _threatened_ by the young, cocky Turk who fit Yuffie's personality like a glove. Not at all.

"Crap." Yuffie slurred, throwing back her shot. Reno followed suit, but Elena didn't. Vincent's remained untouched.

"I've never...slept with my boss." Reno smirked. Elena threw back her glass. Vincent sighed. This game hadn't gotten any less vulgar since he had been a Turk.

"I've never shaved a man's legs." Elena offered. Reno and Rude looked at each other and grimaced, before throwing back their shots.

"It was a bet." Reno said, as if that explained everything. It probably did.

"Uh...Okay, okay. I've never...um...slept with a girl half my age." Yuffie grinned. Everyone immediately turned to Vincent.

"I don't drink." he frowned.

"Whaaaaat? Pfft. You can't handle your booze? What kinda man are you, anyways?" Reno cawed. Vincent had a brief inclination to remind Reno of who had won all their little skirmishes in Sephiroth's war, but thought better of it.

"Well, if you don't drink, you gotta do a dare. That's the rules." the redhead went on. Vincent frowned. That was a new rule on him.

"Okay...Let's see...Okay." the Turk grinned, jabbing a finger at the waitress. "Prove you're a man, and get that chick's number for me."

Vincent groaned, and got to his feet. Even if Reno didn't intend it, this dare would probably drive a wedge between him and Yuffie. And that was the last thing he needed with someone quite so eligible as Reno around. How was he going to get out of this? Still, he had to at least present an image...

"Ah...Excuse me. I require your telephone number, quite urgently."

The waitress gave him a funny look.

"It's for a bet, you see."

The look became less funny and more contemptuous.

"Uh...Are you a thief? You appear to have stolen my heart." he tried as a last ditch attempt. She shook her head and walked away. The rest of the table erupted in a symphony of raucous laughter, with Reno's characteristic snicker standing out above the rest.

"Wow, Vince. You struck out bad, huh?" Yuffie asked as he sat down. There was an edge of drunken accusation in her voice.

"It doesn't concern me. After all, I'm already in love with a thief." he shrugged, taking his shot. "You look stunning when you blush, you know."

Right on cue, Yuffie's face had become flushed red, and it was only partly because of the alcohol. He shot Reno a smug glare, then slowly and deliberately put his fingers on Yuffie's neck. Her pulse was beating gently beneath his fingertips, faster than usual.

"Although, it is hard to restrain myself when you look so very alluring." he said, moving his face closer to hers. He felt her shiver through his fingertips. "Perhaps we could change to a more suitable location, before my self-control is overwhelmed."

Immediately, the ninja stood up.

"Whoa. Okay, guys, we're gonna, like, go. We've got, uh, people to do_._ Dammit, I mean errands. We have errands to do!" she slurred, racing to the bar to pay their bill. The Turks turned and focused their collective gaze on Vincent.

"...You lost on purpose." Rude said, a statement of fact.

"Of course. I _was_ a Turk, once." the gunman answered, standing up.

Reno laughed, and drank another shot.

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A/N: Ugh. For some reason, I have problems writing the current Turks, and that just threw me out of my rhythm when I wrote this. My apologies. I should probably read more Turkfics, I guess. This might get a rewrite when I'm better at writing bar scenes and the Turks, but not at the moment.

**Review Etiquette**: If you have something to say about the story and a request/prompt, please leave both in a review. However, if you just have a prompt and aren't going to say anything about the story, please do **not** review. Instead, please PM me with it. I feel that it isn't fair to get reviews just for prompts or requests; reviews should be earned through either quality of work, or the willingness to improve quality of work, and it would be disrespectful to the other writers on this site to add unearned reviews to the story. Thanks for appreciating this!


	19. Sunlight Through Prison Bars

A/N: This prompt was from Szahara again, and is (as I remember) one of a series of prompts by different people designed to make my life difficult.

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Disclaimer: I would have bought the rights to Final Fantasy VII, but I got a hammock instead.

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Her footsteps echo through the forest in a way that's uncanny. Or maybe they don't. It might just be the sheer, haunted magic of the place that makes her think that way.

The Sleeping Forest. A place she'd hoped never to set foot in again. For her, it was a ghastly, nightmarish prison. It isn't so much a _place_ as it was nihilism incarnate, the that peace stifled thought and noise and breath.

The trees seem to whisper to her as she wanders. _Aerith was here, _they say, as if they're still mourning her. _Aerith was here, long ago._

She shakes it away. She could search for Aerith for all eternity, and never find so much as a dropped petal.

Instead, she's searching for shadows. She's seeking an illusion, and hunting a phantom. But all she can find are his footprints, immortalised in the forest's stasis.

Perhaps sunlight will filter through the mesh of branches, stealing into the prison of her memories. But for now, no light breaks upon the cell door, and Vincent is still nowhere to be found.

* * *

A/N: I should probably explain. This is set after Vincent's disappearance at the end of DoC, and involves Yuffie looking for him in the Sleeping Forest/City of The Ancients area. (Where Vincent rescued Cloud in AC.) I deliberately kept this pretty short, because it's a somewhat awkward prompt. I hope I handled it okay.


	20. Self Sufficiency

A/N: This is another one of my own prompts.

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Disclaimer: You can't spell Square without 'sue'.

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That morning, dawn broke- as did most of the fine china. The disjointed song of the hammer's fall eclipsed the melody of the cockerel's call, and Vincent Valentine received as rude an awakening as any when a piece of the ceiling fell into his lap.

He wouldn't mind Yuffie's fixation with DIY, if it wasn't for the fact that she reserved Sunday morning specifically for the task. In fact, he wouldn't even mind it then, if Yuffie didn't believe whole heartedly that Sunday morning began at five o' clock sharp.

The rhythm of the hammer was interrupted for rousing bout of swearing. Yuffie's technique with a hammer left something to be desired, and they were swiftly running out of 'totally epic teddy bear band-aids' with which to treat Yuffie's mistakes. In fact, if Vincent were a creature of sense and mercy, he would have put a stop to her self harming DIY long ago.

But, as much as he hated to admit it, he always felt vaguely smug when Yuffie ran up, her thumb twice the normal size, and demanded he break out the first aid kit. It partially stemmed from his one-time belief that DIY was a man's job- a belief that was quickly extinguished by him driving a nail into a water pipe when putting up a shelf. It made him feel somewhat better that Yuffie was no more skilled than he, despite her vicious assertions that she 'only missed the nail because my hair was in my eyes.'

However, far apart from a perversely human sense of satisfaction, he liked to hear Yuffie talk about her projects. Sometimes, they were as simple as fixing a slanted shelf or trying to nail together a bookcase. Other times, they were vast and elaborate, like putting booby traps near the fridge or making a miniature trebuchet with which to hurl tomatoes at the Croft's house. (She'd never forgiven them for turning her away last Halloween.) Always, always, there was some part of the house that Yuffie was assaulting with a hammer and some boundless enthusiasm.

Of course, the Crofts usually had something to say about the early-morning racket. They would march to their door, clad only in finest silk dressing gowns, and demand that Yuffie put the hammer down or the police would be called. Yuffie would stifle her giggles, gently lay her hammer down, and plug in the power drill. It was turning into a running war, but Vincent was secretly pleased about it; it was his first neighbourhood feud, and he couldn't quite shake the thought that you had to have at least one in your life, otherwise you were missing out on one of the deepest and most mysterious joys known to man.

Of course, there were considerable downsides. DIY is an expensive hobby, both in terms of supplies and in terms of filling in the many pointless holes in the wall that Yuffie routinely drilled. ("Hey, Vince, you should try it. Power tools are fun! Look!")

There was also the fact that he wasn't really sure the modifications Yuffie was making were beneficial. He admitted that building a punji pit beside the front door would make the house more ninja-like, but it might make it a little hard to collect the milk. (It had the advantage of killing door-to-door insurance salesmen, but he could just as easily do that himself, whilst ensuring the milk remained fresh and unstolen by the paper boy.)

But, he's thankful for Yuffie's DIY distraction, because they have taught him a very important lesson. Self sufficiency is not the ability to build a shelf or wield a hammer.

Self sufficiency is the ability to remember the local handyman's number off by heart.

* * *

A/N: Just another mundane little snippet. This was originally going to be, y'know, better. But I got sick when I was writing it, to the point where I could hardly even spell the title.


	21. The Minstrel's Prayer

A/N: This prompt was another in the line of 'make-my-life-harder' prompts. This one was by Anzer'ke.

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Disclaimer: Musical Disclaimer #3: Got money? I'd do anything for you. Except claim ownership, because Square might sue.

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The sun clefts the valley, dying the canyon walls gold. The evening light seeps into everything, from his hair to the little chocobo chain she keeps on her keys.

"Gawd, Vince. Hurry up." she drawls, enjoying the last shreds of the sunset. He just grumbles.

"Pfft. What's wrong, Zombie-butt? Feeling like an old man because you can't pitch a tent anymore?" she winks, her tongue flicking from her lips. He decides not to acknowledge her poorly disguised sexual metaphor.

"It's been a while since we've done this. I need to get back into practice." he grunts, metal fingers struggling with rope.

"Hah. I'll get us a bubble-bath and candles when we get to Cosmo Canyon, then. I'd like to hear _you_ howl under the full moon."

Again, he ignores the taunts. Instead, he grabs the mallet for peg-setting and brandishes it at her playfully. She doesn't notice, because her headphones have already leapt into her eyes, like fleas to a cat. As music floods her ears, he fades into the background. A background that now contains a freshly pitched tent.

The moon, a sliver of quicksilver, is astride the clouds when he sneaks from the tent. The walls of the canyon seem closer than before in the night air, but no monsters draw near. He takes his gun, just in case.

He doesn't actually know why he does this. Maybe because he wants to create instead of destroy. Or maybe because he's really an artistic soul? Maybe (and it's a different, less pleasing maybe), he's jealous of her attention. Nevertheless, he snatches up the guitar he hid earlier.

Metal fingers carefully navigate the wood and strings. It's not how it seems in those infernal videos that Yuffie's always watching, where some puberty-ridden acne-bag whisks his fingers down the frets with ease. If he grips too tight with his metal hand, he'll crush the fretboard, or spine, or whatever it's called. And his human hand refuses to take the positions he wants it to, because it's more used to holding a trigger than a pick.

His voice is wrong, too. Instead of sweet melodies or rousing choruses, his voice is flat, lacking in some indefinable way. He can only sing quietly, because at higher volumes even his flat notes distort, twisting into a sub-human wail. He sometimes thinks it's Gallian, or maybe Hellmasker, their laments tearing out of his throat without his permission.

He plays for a good hour, under the moon. He doesn't get too far. He'd probably be far better at something different, like a violin, or perhaps even a harmonica. But Yuffie doesn't listen to those kinds of things very often. Eventually, he gives up for the night, because he's almost _sure_ he heard a monster's howl, somewhere underneath the scratch of his fingers or the break of his voice.

_He's getting better_, she thinks, burying her head in the pillow so he won't think she was listening. _Although how he ever thought he could hide a guitar from me, I'll never know. _It might not have been a full moon, but she still loves to hear him howl.

* * *

A/N: Some people will think I missed out the 'prayer' part of this; actually, music is considered one of the greatest form of prayer for many religions. I play the harmonica, myself.

I have a couple of announcements: firstly, I'm going to stop putting the Review Etiquette section here, because if you haven't got it after twenty-odd chapters, you never will. (Also, I keep forgetting to put it before I post, and it's annoying to have to go back to edit.) Secondly, remember that the current schedule of requests for Pyjamas is on my profile, and is kept up to date, so if you want to know what's coming up, that's the place to check. Last but not least, I'm planning to write a longer, 'bonus' chapter after we hit Chapter 25, because even if these chapters are only short, I think it's important to celebrate every once in a while.


	22. Mocha

A/N: This prompt was from Kaze-Ink.

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Disclaimer: In the words of the Spartans, "Tonight, we dine in a legally distinguishable alternative to an established fast food chain! That, or Hell. I'm leaning towards Hell."

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There is one thing Vincent Valentine truly hates.

"Hey, ugly. Got a question for you." she smiles, hands between her back.

One thing that makes him want to pump a bullet into everyone and everything.

"It's pretty important, so be honest."

One thing that he'd rather die than endure.

"Okay. Which do you prefer? A polka dot or a pirate striped bikini?" she says, presenting the swimwear with a flourish.

Being offered a choice of two alternatives that there is absolutely no significant difference between.

"Yuffie. I honestly don't care. They both fulfil their purpose equally well." he snorts brusquely.

"No, they don't. Which one?" she insists, waving them like little near-identical flags in front of his nose. They smell of mothballs, which is faintly worrying.

"Their purpose is to obscure your nether regions and provide warmth. How could they possibly differ in that respect?" he sighs, trying to divert her attention.

"Pfft, no. That's not their purpose. Make a choice, knucklehead." she pouts, looking up at him through her sun visor.

And all he wanted was a simple trip to the beach, to try his hand at open-water fishing.

"Enlighten me, then. What is their purpose, and how exactly does it matter?" he asks, inching his way over towards the children's buckets and spades. They may be plastic and festooned with cartoon characters that he doesn't know, but at least they won't ask him obnoxious questions to which there isn't really an answer.

"Their purpose", she drawls, "is that when _I_ put them _on_, _you_ want to take them _off_. Now, spots or stripes?"

In that case, perhaps the question really does have a point; the significance is all down to preference. Reluctantly, he points at the striped specimen.

"Good. That wasn't so hard now, was it? Gawd, you're like a kid in a candy store." she mutters, diving back into the rack.

He sighs, and returns to the question of how _exactly _one uses a fishing rod. They're so full of little bits and pieces, threads and rings, each affecting the entire constitution of the rod and therefore the percentage chance of success-

"Okay, red or green?" she asks, flapping two tiny striped handkerchiefs in front of his face.

He snarls, and wonders where he put his gun.

* * *

A/N: Didn't get how the title links with the story? In that case, go into legally distinguishable alternative to a Starbucks and ask for a coffee. The same kind of thing will happen, except with less bikinis and more chaos.


	23. House

A/N: I had to put this up late in the evening, because, well, I fell asleep. Sorry about that. The prompt was from Ski October; I was somewhat reluctant to do the original prompt, but I'm making a compromise here.

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Disclaimer: I would say I don't own Final Fantasy, but that'd be discrimination against everything _else_ that I don't own. Political correctness; I have it.

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They grow up so fast. It's a cliché, but it's true, and for no one more than him. His long years (of which he has so many left) have blurred his sense of time, so that all the seconds melt together and the days rattle by like machine-gun fire. Even years, which seem huge in his mind, go by like a leaf in a hurricane.

It seems like yesterday that she was hiding in his cloak, wrapping herself in the warm mantle with a childish selfishness that permitted him no argument. She needed it, so she took it; the directive of life. At the time, it reminded him of another 'child' who really should have known better, except that child took not only what she did need, but other things she didn't. (In truth, that 'child' had a tendency to take anything that wasn't nailed down.)

All it took was a few flutters of his eyelashes, and she was growing; tall for her age, awkward in her clothes and her manner and her body. He really should have teased her about boys (that seems a very fatherly thing to do), but he missed his chance by getting caught up in the trials and tribulations of the WRO. He doesn't _regret_ it, per se, but he feels somewhat wistful every time he sees her.

Now, she's almost full grown, reaching the end of childhood. She's actually a little taller than Yuffie, which is a source of endless amusement to both of them (but not so much to the White Rose herself). She's learned a little from all of them; a confident step, a warm smile, indomitable presence, quiet wisdom, quick thinking, and sticky fingers.

"Hey, Uncle Vincent. I got in trouble at school today, and Tifa's mad." she says, bashfully.

"...You can't come here every time this happens." he protests weakly. She sees it and grins; he'll cave and she knows it.

"Thanks, Uncle Vince. You're the best!" she giggles, kissing his cheek and running off. He sighs.

He's probably the reason she's in trouble, actually. She's learned, in the various arguments she's seen him having with a certain miss Kisaragi, how to be truly terrifying when mad. And he can't really unteach her; besides, he thinks it's almost fitting she has something from him. Besides, it helps her live up to the sense of justice she learned from Tifa.

"She's something, huh?" Yuffie says, approaching from his blindside as she always does. "He's wearing your spare mantle, by the way."

"Let her. It'd take a greater man than I to force her not to." he mutters.

"Pah. So you'll let her do it, and not me?" Yuffie pouts.

"Who's the child here?" he asks, playfully.

Marlene, the child that AVALANCHE raised, comes back into the room with a catlike grin. Immediately, Yuffie orders her to turn out her pockets, which contain some little amount of gil. Yuffie sighs, and tells her to try again, only practice her poker face this time.

"Makes me wanna have one of my own." Yuffie whispers.

"So you can train a gang of them?" he asks, an eyebrow arching. Yuffie's grin becomes manic. "And you say _I'm _not fit for society."

"Hey, I basically just offered to make cool ninja-Turk babies with you. You've gotta be nice to me, at least until the end of the day." she huffs. He can't fathom her logic sometimes.

"My apologies, but I'll have to decline. You're enough to deal with, without throwing babies into the mix." he says.

"...Whatever happens, we can handle it. If we can't, we've got friends. I mean, look how well Marlene and Denzel turned out. They're the best kids I've ever seen." she retorts, unusually subdued. His nature as an experiment makes him touchy about any suggestion of procreation.

"Aren't you biased, Auntie Yuffie?" he grins. She smacks him over the head.

He doesn't really know what he's missing out on, what Barret found that he didn't. But he will. Because, just like Marlene, Yuffie _always_ gets what she wants.

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A/N: The original prompt was for a family-kinda fic. I wasn't too hot on the idea of making up a baby for Vincent and Yuffie, not only because I can't choose names very well, but also because it may turn into a recurring theme, which would probably just dominate the collection. So, we had a slightly fatherly Vincent dealing with Marlene. First time I've written anything of the sort, so this really was an initiation by fire, and one that I was highly uncomfortable with.


	24. Opening Worlds

A/N: This prompt was by Circle Of Phoenix. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Musical Disclaimer Number #4: Don't wanna waste no more time- time's what we don't have. (We have plenty of lawyers, though...)

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It's strange how _naturally _it comes to him. Like it's already built in, an indelible subroutine in the supercomputer of his brain. He's got a gift in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other. The chocolates have all fallen out of the tray and are shifting around inside the box, making it even more difficult to balance. But he's doing it, and it's like the first time he rode a bike: it's finally clicked inside his brain that _this_ is something he can do.

His brain, however, has not allowed for the fact that Yuffie invariably leaves her shoes in the middle of the floor.

He topples. As he starts to fall, he thinks that, as far as ideas go, tiptoeing through the house in total darkness was not a good one. The box of chocolates flies out of his hand, but he manages to hold onto the other box with grim determination. Finally, he hits the ground, his thin pyjamas doing little to cushion the impact- or, more importantly, the noise.

_Thump, thump, thump._

He feels like a child that's been caught stealing cookies as Yuffie's footsteps descend the stairs. There isn't really any way the situation can be salvaged. All the chocolates have fallen from the box, and there's no possible way he can gather them up, grab the box, and hide before Yuffie jumps down the last five stairs and bursts through the door.

"Alright, thief! Yuffie Kisaragi's coming for ya!" Yuffie shouts, jumping the last five stairs and bursting through the door.

Her expression goes through three stages of anger and seven stages of pity before she starts to laugh. He's on the floor, surrounded by chocolates, in powder blue pyjamas. As she chokes down the last of her giggles, he grumbles.

"So, why were you sneaking around down here, anyway?" she asks, pulling him to his feet. "It sounded like someone had felled an oak in the living room."

"...I was trying to surprise you." he mutters darkly. Having one's ego checked is not a pleasurable feeling.

"Why? It's not my birthday." she says, bending down and picking up one of the chocolates. "Five second rule."

"It's been more than five seconds." he comments, as she pops it into her mouth.

"Peh! You're telling me. Tastes like it's been down there an hour. Where'd ya buy these things, anyways?"

"...Did you forget?" he asks, glowering. She looks at him, noting how very unimpressed his expression is.

"Uh...Maybe?"

"...Ugh. Today marks the first anniversary of our relationship, Yuffie. _I _made those chocolates to as a gift, to celebrate the occasion."

"Whaaaaat? It's already been a year? Gawd. And it's usually the guy who forgets, too." she says almost bashfully, quickly shelving any comments she had about how the chocolates taste of baked sandpaper.

"Indeed. I was going to bring them up to you, but...Your shoes stopped me." he glares.

"Damn shoes. Must be spies or something. I'll interrogate them later." she mutters, throwing a sharp glance at the offending footwear. "What's with the other box?"

"Ah...I thought it best to give you a second gift- one that isn't edible." he says, pushing the box into her hands.

"Not edible, hmm? We'll see about that." she winks. The box isn't wrapped (he has difficulty with wrapping gifts), but it's still visually appealing in a way that only presents can muster.

"Wait. You bought me a _globe_?" she asks, lifting it from the box. It's a bland desktop model, with a pencil sharpener in the bottom. "What am I, a geography teacher?"

He winces under the comment. Perhaps he _isn't_ quite as good at this kind of thing as he imagined.

"It's not just a globe, Yuffie...It's the world. Perhaps mine isn't as large or colourful as others, but I'm still giving it to you." he says, an edge of dejection in his voice.

"...Aww. You're such a dope, you know that? You didn't have to get me something all symbolic like this." she says, drawing closer to him. "Well, you didn't really have to get me anything. I forgot the anniversary, so that absolved you from anniversary-present duty anyways."

"I...see." He doesn't, but it makes her giggle, and that's good enough.

In between clearing up the mess from the chocolates (which have started to melt into their carpet) and interrogating Yuffie's shoes for signs of treachery, he doesn't notice that his lady ninja has become conspicuous by her absence. He merely assumes she's gone back upstairs for another hour or so of rest.

"Hey, Vince. I'm back." she says breezily, sitting down and helping herself to the breakfast he's just cooked for himself. "I sto- er, bought you an anniversary present."

"_Two-Hundred And One Chocolate Recipes?_" he asks, looking at the cookbook.

"Yeah. You'd actually be pretty good, with some practice. Better get started, huh?" she says, flashing him a cat's grin. He sighs. Nothing ever changes.

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A/N: This is slightly behind schedule; I wanted to devote more time to it than I had. In regards to the filler chapter, I'm going to take it down (as well as the poor first draft of _Zoo_), but if I get enough of these 'reject' chapters, I may make a collection for them (and some of my other unfinished/less satisfying work.) But, for now, consider them nix'd.


	25. Bad Luck II

A/N: This prompt comes from...Well, it isn't really a prompt, and it's from yours truly. A continuation of the chapter '_Bad Luck_'.

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Disclaimer: My greatest fear is that one day, people will realise that all I do in this collection is make jokes, write fluff and poke fun at copyright laws.

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Midgar stands proud on the horizon, but there's something comical about the plate that sits above the city. It's wider than the city itself, he realises, and that's where the punchline is: the moral corruption above is larger than the corruption below, despite the poisonous air and the thuggish barflies. He notes it cynically; Shinra Inc. is corrupted. It goes in the same drawer in his mind that every other fact goes into, ready to be used and abused when the time is right. There's no real emotional reaction. He's a Turk, after all.

Huffing, he moves away from the car's back window. He's got a long journey ahead of him. Nibelheim, seems a world away- across the mountains, across the sea, across the desert and the canyons and the forests. It's a path paved with obstacles, and he doesn't like it. In Midgar, the only obstacles were people- easily removed. But a desert will never bleed, no matter how much you shoot it.

He blinks. The driver asks him whether he's okay. He throws him a half-hearted nod, and the driver, civil duty attended to, resumes the job for which he's being paid. Vincent's skin prickles.

He's heard of it before, from accounts of old, retired Turks who got pensions and shuffled paper and couldn't lift a gun. It starts in chest, the feeling of being invincible, like you can't die. (Although, that's the feeling all Turks have. It comes with the territory.) Then comes the fear. The shaking, echoing fear, the fear that strikes when there's nothing around. It's the fear of the self, the monster that lives inside the man, the one no-one can kill, the one that can barely be controlled.

The last step is the realisation: the knowledge that the monster _is _the Turk, not you. And it becomes a war between you and the Turk, and the Turk always wins. They say that's the moment when the person 'cracks', and their mind starts marching to the tune of machine-gun fire, ever-closer to the inevitable destination: insanity.

He wonders, silently, if _this _is what it's like to go crazy. They say that wondering if you're crazy proves you aren't, but you'd have to be insane to know that in the first place, so he doesn't trust it.

The moment passes, and he regains control. He'll deal with his personal demons later, in the cold mountain air of Nibelheim. For now, he must rest for the journey.

He's torn, between worrying about the reality of life in Nibelheim, or the mission he has to achieve within it. He settles for the former. He wonders, briefly, if it's anything like his home town, although it's not like he could tell if it was. He can't remember his home town anymore. The deadly, rushing monotony of the city life has worn him down. Still, he can amuse himself with fantasies of how his home might have been.

He doesn't (_cannot_) know the future. He cannot know that, in about thirty years' time, he will awaken again in Nibelheim, carrying greater demons than he can yet imagine. He cannot know that his childhood foible of blaming himself will be fashioned by time into his own personal torture. And he cannot know that, waiting for him in that quiet mountain town, is a woman who he will love, a man who he will hate, and a bullet that will pierce his heart.

For him, the future is uncertain. But with uncertainty comes hope; a hope that the future he will embrace is better than the city he has left behind.

Only history knows the truth.

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A/N: Well, there we go. Bad Luck, part II, and I've caught up with my schedule. There's actually room for a Part III here, to show Vincent's meeting with Lucrecia, but that's for later.

In other news, I promised a celebratory chapter once we reached 25 (planned) chapters, and 25 chapters we have reached; the celebration will be put up with the next chapter. Thanks to everyone who's read this far!


	26. Of Pyjamas

A/N: Well, welcome to the celebratory chapter I promised! Hope you all enjoy it.

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Disclaimer: There is nothing that cannot be improved with whipped cream, and nothing that cannot be made worse with lawsuits.

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He wonders why she even bothers to _buy_ clothes, sometimes. She has a whole closet of unused outfits, all of them revealing. There's barely a top in there that doesn't tempt the mind with glimpses of stomach. And as for trousers, there aren't any- just pair after pair of shorts, cut in different shapes and colours. Her criteria for shorts are unknown to him; some are "Ew. Just ew." And others are "Oh, wow, these are cute. Hey there, little shorts, wanna ride home in Yuffie's bag? Vince, check if anyone's watching." He thinks it might have something to do with how many pockets they have, but he's probably wrong.

The problem is, of course, that someone invariably is watching. But they're not watching the shorts. Or, rather, not the pair in her hand, but the ones on her bottom. He can no longer go outside without feeling mildly infuriated by society's lack of self-restraint. (Although, he does sometimes find that his gaze falls a little more south than it should do when they're walking together.)

He's not jealous, or overprotective, or anything like that. Not at all. If he can trust her to roam around the countryside around Edge, diving into whatever monster nest Reeve wants exterminated today, he can certainly trust her enough to walk down the street. (Although, she doesn't so much _walk _as _strut_.)

He just wishes the male community at large (as well as a select portion of the female community) would collectively scrape its jaw off the ground, stop proclaiming how hard they would 'hit dat', and get on with their lives. (Although, he can knows all too well how jaw-dropping Yuffie can be.)

Still, the greatest problem with her closet of revealing clothes occurs not when she wears them, but when she doesn't. The simple fact of the matter is this: Yuffie Kisaragi lives in her pyjamas.

Of course, he's fond of his dressing robe himself. Comfortable, functional, and a rather excellent garb in which to read books after a hot shower. (All his showers are hot, so hot that thick reams of steam seem to lick the paint from the walls every evening. She often asks just what he's trying to wash away in there, and the answer is still not something he feels he can confide.) But he doesn't _live _in it.

Yuffie's pyjamas are green. Of what shade, he isn't sure; somewhere between spring and lime, he thinks. They're simple, made of soft cotton, and they're slowly falling apart with use. The top is starting to look more like a patchwork quilt than anything else, and the bottoms like those moth-eaten jeans he sees young people wearing occasionally. But the fabric has worn too thin with age.

"Yuffie. Bra." he says, shuffling his newspaper.

"Pfff. Gawd, Vince. I hardly need one. It ain't like I'm busting out, here." she says, pulling her face up from her cornflakes and glaring at him with her bleary morning eyes. He stares back, determined to look anywhere but the pyjama top that's struggling valiantly to conceal her bra-lessness.

"Still. It's distracting." he mutters.

"Oh, shut up. You'd think Tifa had come in and flashed her knockers, the way you go on about it." she moans.

"Yuffie, if your breasts were even a tenth the size of your ego, Tifa would find herself outclassed by some way." he says, before realising how very snarky the comment is. He must be picking up bad habits. He looks at the woman slumped over the breakfast table and wonders from whom he has acquired them.

"Pah. Considering how small you think they are, you sure seem obsessed with 'em. Typical man." she smirks, flicking a spoon of cornflakes at him. It lands on the paper, five inches right of the want-ads. A few spots of milk land on his own pyjamas (which he only wears in the mornings, to avoid looking like a hypocrite.)

"I wouldn't find myself quite so distracted if your pyjamas didn't cover you quite so poorly." he sniffs. His are sky-blue to complement her green. She picked them.

"Hey, don't rag on my PJs. We've been through a lot together. Good memories, man. If you had a set of pyjamas you loved, you'd understand." she says, a dull edge of anger in her voice.

"Yes, Yuffie. We've been over this. Many times." he grimaces. And yet, he never seems to learn.

"Yeah, and my answer hasn't changed. If I had to choose between you and my jammies, you'd be packing your bag so quick you'd get a speeding ticket." she shrugs, reaching for the jam. He snatches it away quickly. Yuffie Kisaragi armed with blackcurrant jam is little better than a nightmare.

"I wouldn't mind, if you would simply take them off every now and again." he says, moving the jam to a safe distance. He keeps an eye on her hands. He's known her to whip the tablecloth out from under the cutlery and fashion it into an impromptu lasso. It's a fantastic trick, but shopping for plates the next day is a chore.

"So, wait. First you moan that they don't cover enough, then you want me to take them off." Her eyebrow arcs, and a sneaky grin slides onto her face.

Immediately, he realises that he has to divert the conversation, otherwise there will be a very good chance that neither of them will get to work today.

"I meant nothing of the sort and you know it."

"Oh, I think you did. In fact, I'm quite sure you did."

He realises quite quickly that this is _not _diverting the conversation.

"I only meant to infer that you should wear other pyjamas sometimes."

"Really now?" she grins, sliding out of her seat. "And is that because they show too much, or not enough?"

It's too early in the morning for this kind of thing. He hasn't even finished his toast. She stalks over with deliberate slowness, her hands brushing over the tablecloth with delicate touches.

"Your pyjamas smell." he blurts out, his mouth achingly dry. _Smooth move, Valentine, _his mind screams at him. _Show her just how mature you aren't, why don't you?_

"Oh, really? I can't tell. You sure? Maybe you need to check again." she purrs, moving even closer. His face suddenly feels hot.

"Bra, Yuffie." he murmurs faintly, because at this range it's incredibly obvious that she's not wearing one. She merely grins and takes a step closer. He realises with a jolt that he pyjamas _do _smell, they smell of her, and-

"Wood, Vince." she smiles. The blood rises to his cheeks, and he flicks his eyes down to check-

_Splat._ He groans as almost a full jar of blackcurrant jam lands on his crotch. He doesn't look up, because he's certain that Yuffie has the smuggest look imaginable to man plastered on her face.

"Typical man." she laughs. "Didn't even notice me picking up the jar."

"Hmph. I hope you're happy. This will never come out. A perfectly good pair of pyjamas, ruined." he sniffs, trying to ignore how very uncomfortable it is.

"Your own fault. Shouldn't criticise my jammies." she yawns, stealing some of his toast for good measure. "Although, if you don't like your pyjamas, you're free to take them off."

"Hmph. Very amusing. You really should change your pyjamas, though. They _do_ smell a little." he says, closing his eyes and devising a plan to get upstairs without dripping jam all over their carpets.

He hears Yuffie laugh. It's a light, mischievous sound. So he almost isn't surprised when her pyjama top comes sailing over the breakfast table and hits him in the face.

They never did manage to get to work that day.

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A/N: I know I said this would be up with the next prompt, but unfortunately I got another lot of work dumped on me, so this is it for now. Plus, the next prompt contains that most odious of letters, the Q. And I'm not taking on that whilst unprepared. Also, it's been a while since I did a sexual fake-out kinda thing, so yeah. Regular service will be resumed soon.


	27. Queer

A/N: This prompt was from Szahara again. Thanks! By the way, expect weirdness for this.

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Disclaimer: I claimed to own Final Fantasy, so the lawyers sued me and repossessed my wit.

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The sky flashes, black-red-black-red, as all the cards come tumbling down, flopping onto the ground like the wet cardboard they are. The Queen of Hearts wants off with their heads, off with their bodies, off with everything. Stained red, she wears the night like a black shroud, and the ace of spades is by her side, silver hair flaying his shoulders in the wind. The thunder crashes down, down, down, and for a moment it's like the sky might follow it, as the sky is wont to do. The White Rabbit, the one they chased into this hell-hole, lies on his side, his pretty coat stained with blood. His hair is slicked down with red, clutching at his head like tufts of blonde seaweed to a rock.

It's a losing battle, now. The Ace of Spades whirls around, grinning madly, like he's grown a thousand feet since they saw him last. He's huge and they're tiny, insignificant ants beneath his power, beneath his mother's power. The Queen looks on indulgently, with her face-that-isn't-a-face twisted into a mocking laugh.

It's just them, Alice and the Cheshire Cat, and the Cat is fading fast. But it was her grin that faded first, and now the rest of her is disappearing, inch by inch, piece by piece, swallowed up by the tides of black. It was never her grin, Alice realises, but the stripes, the stripes that made her special- the inconsistencies, the quirks, the laughable _contrast_ of her. But they're fading, fading, and all the cards in the world can't paint the colour back; it's all bleeding out, through every pore, leaving her monochrome and still.

And then there was one. Alice, who spent thirty years in Wonderland, and another few years dreaming about it. Alice, who eventually learned to let it go, to stop wishing to go back. Alice, who spins like a roulette wheel, one bullet per spin, gambling it all against the Ace Of Spades. But it's Ace high and no trumps, and this is the final hand. The muzzle flashes and for a second, it seems like the Ace has lost this trick. He staggers back, clutching his chest, where there's no longer a heart for his mother to be Queen of. Instead, there's a blazing point of light where the bullet went in, where the Russian Roulette took its ante. He falls, and the _seems_ drops away.

But there's still the Queen of Hearts, and she's a completely different suit. Fighting her is like playing games, a crazy croquet match where the ball is Alice's head, and the Queen keeps swinging and swinging until she wins the round. So it's not really like they're playing games, and more like Alice is leaping through hoops as the Queen cackles on. It has to come to an end sometime, and with a final, shuddering crack, it does.

Wonderland, the aether that draws in fools. The great darkness where the Queen resides. The White Rabbit came for his trial, led by his guilty genetics, his entourage of WRO cards in tow. They thought they could get out at the other side.

But when you're in Wonderland, every step is a step backwards, and history happens in the future. In ages long past, a great Calamity fell from the skies, a harbinger of destruction, that was injected into the heart of many men. Wonderland is a world of circles...

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A/N: Okay. I admit it. This is an oddball. Where is the reference to the prompt of Queer, you ask? Well, firstly in the piece itself (it's nothing if not strange) and secondly, when I think of queer, I think of 'Curiouser and Curiouser', which leads me to Lewis Carroll and Alice. What I wanted here, but didn't _quite_ get, was a sinister Alice In Wonderland, with Vince being Alice, Cloud the White Rabbit, Yuffie the Cheshire Cat, Jenova the Queen of Hearts, Sephiroth as the Ace of Spades, and the WRO task forces as the cards. And some sort of apoocalyptic, Jenova and Sephiroth return kind of event thrown in for fun. Oh well. You give me a synonym for strange as a prompt, you get strange in return.


	28. Extravaganza II

A/N: Requested by serenbach. Thanks~

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Disclaimer: This is 100% illegal, just like your shirt is 100% cotton, and your lawyer is 100% not someone you'd invite over for dinner.

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"Vincent Valentine, what the hell are you doing in my private chambers?"

It's a good question, but he doesn't know the answer. Something, certainly. He needs to do something. There's no more 'raindrops falling into a forest pool' tranquillity in him now, just fire and anger and _energy_. He hasn't felt this alive since he was born.

"I wouldn't mind, but, uh, it's not _proper_ for the Empress of Wutai's ex to be paying her a bedroom visit," she says, trying to ice the word _ex_ so it freezes. No chance there. "Besides, I told my guards not to let you in."

"I told them otherwise," he says darkly, his hands crumpling into fists. They'll wake up in a few hours. Probably.

She looks at him blearily. Yuffie Kisaragi is by no means a morning person. It's somewhat underhanded for him to exploit that, but dammit, he needs every advantage he can get, and it's not like he could have waited any longer.

There's a pregnant silence. Good. It gives him time to think. He needs every chance. The words to say, the things to do, that mystical set of instructions he needs to follow to _get her back._ And an escape route, in case things go wrong. He can only think of the last one.

"So...What? You're just gonna stand there, looking at me? You knocked out some innocent men so you could peep on me sleeping?" she asks, feigning nonchalance. Wrong move. It echoes in his ears like the ring of a gong.

His metal fingers have been digging into her bedside table. He doesn't notice, just walks. They gouge thick trails in the wood, but that doesn't concern him. He needs to get closer.

"Whoa, hey. What are you-" she backs up, her hand plunging down into her clothes, searching for a star, a kunai, anything.

For once, she's too slow and he's too fast. Before she can react, they've collided, and his arms wrap themselves around her back, pinning her arms to her sides. Her heart beats- _ba-dump, ba-dump_- in a way it isn't supposed to.

"Just once in your life, Yuffie, shut up and allow me to speak," he growls.

The sun is finally peeking above the mountain, and the sun streams in through the window. She doesn't know where to look, so she looks at his face. There's something there, something once broken, twice removed. It's in his skin, ethereal in the light, almost like it was new again.

"Yuffie...How long has it been since we started dating?" he asks. It's the mirror of her question the night before. Instantly, she snarls. If he's here to play jokes, she doesn't want it.

"Six months, Vincent. Six months, and you never even _tried _to hold me," she spits, like a cat whose tail has been trodden on.

"Six months? And what does that mean to me, one who has forgotten time? For thirty years I slept, and now the passage of time means nothing to me. The days blur into wildness, the months into seamless dreams," he whispers. There's poetry in it, she realises, the kind of poetry she always thought he had, the kind he'd never show her.

"For me, one day is as the next, as is the next, as is the next."

His arms loosen, and hers break free. But she doesn't move away. His hands still linger on her shoulders.

"So, too, is a month. Is a year. Is a lifetime. Yuffie. Listen to me now."

For six months, he never tried to hold her. But he's holding her now, with his fingertips at her back and his words tingling in her ears.

"For me, time is nothing. A second is the mirror of eternity. If I am prepared to spend one with you, then I am prepared to spend the other."

She feels the cold metal of his hand dance across the back of her neck, gently, gently, like lilies resting on a pond.

"I...I was scared, Vincent. You...You didn't do things like a normal person would," she stammers. All her jokes, her silliness, her immaturity, are falling off her like old clothes.

"It is my fault," he says, bowing his head in guilt. His hair brushes across her collarbone, and she realises just how close he is. "I forgot, that time means something different to you than it does to me. For that, I am to blame."

"Oh, shut up," she mumbles. His hair is tickling her.

"The time I have wasted...Feel free to take it back."

There's something teasing in his voice, some dark temptation. Her shoulders tingle from where his hands have been, and where they should have been before. It's like magic, only without shiny materia or the Planet's Wisdom. Just him.

"No? Then allow me."

He steals the kiss, just like she would have if she'd thought of it. It's slow, lingering. The taste of his mouth starts to seep down through her nerves and into her skin, into her muscles, her soul-

She breaks, gasping, her head swimming and numb. He allows her a few breaths, and then, with a smile he shows only to her, rejoins the kiss. He's in control, and he likes it.

Time slows, in the hazy fog of her mind. Each sensation seems to stretch in her mind until it occupies all her memories, all her feelings. The seconds blur together, becoming the mirror of eternity- the eternity she'll spend with him.

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A/N: A sappy ending there. I blame society and baby animals in general.


	29. Queasy

A/N: This prompt was by Anzer'ke. Due to some unfortunate scheduling, this has to be posted on the day I'm meant to have my birthday party. Ergo, I don't have much time to write it. Therefore, it's a drabble. Sorry guys.

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Disclaimer: A sailor went to sea sea sea to see what he could see see see copyright.

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Planes, trains, automobiles, boats, birds, and bikes. These are only a few of the many things that make Yuffie Kisaragi throw up.

The solution to the problem is to avoid getting on any form of transportation. Ever. The rocking motion makes her sick in a way that even ninja acrobatics fail to replicate.

But, occasionally, she forgets her golden rule of "if you can ride it, don't." And usually winds up ruining some perfectly good upholstery.

As she demands a piggyback from Vincent Valentine, it seems she has forgotten her golden rule. And his cape will pay the price.

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A/N: Yeah, a quick note: I'm aware that I've yet to answer the reviews for the last chapter yet, but I really don't have time. Replies will come tomorrow.


	30. Annoy The Ones You Love

A/N: Well, here's a little secret for all you guys who wished me a happy birthday last chapter: it wasn't my birthday, merely the party. As it happens, the party was scheduled two days before my actual birthday, meaning...Yep! Due to the schedule of this fic, I'm writing on the day of my birth. Never let it be said that I lack dedication! Anyway, this prompt was from kaito142.

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Disclaimer: Happy birthday woot woot, happy birthday woot woot, this song's owned by lawyeeeeerss...So you got a lawsuit!

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There's a fine line between love and hate. Love is toasties and tea in the mornings, and hate is those ridiculous ornaments that you only buy when you slowly advance on the path to becoming your own parents. That's how she sees it, anyways. She's always at one point or the other with him, either plonked at the bottom of the ever-changing see-saw, or sliding down from the top. It's not in her nature to even begin to acknowledge that there's something in between the extremes, that there's a Goldilocks moment somewhere in the middle. But then again, she is Yuffie, and the extremes are what she's all about.

He, on the other hand, knows well that there is a halcyon point. After all, he lives there, most days, sitting on the calm island of his mind and watching the wall of swirling winds that he calls his emotions. The eye of the storm is his domain and his kingdom. And he'd rather like to stay there.

It's a never ending battle; her the unpredictable force, him the solemn inertia. She seeks to move him as she herself is moved; he seeks to remain in between the poles of love and hate.

In the end, it all adds up to a state of equilibrium; somewhere not left, or right, or middle, but lost somewhere in between. He finds himself pulled into the fray; and before long, he both hates her and loves her. There's no middle point anymore, no happy centre of uncaring apathy. Merely annoyance, at himself for allowing her to pick him up, and her for ever setting him down in this world of light and sound and extremes.

Love, hate, anger, annoyance, happiness, sadness. All have the same opposite: peace. And fortunately, Yuffie will always be around to disturb that.

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A/N: Yeah, another quickie. Sorry folks.


	31. The Emperor's New Wallpaper

A/N: Finally, I have time enough to sit down and write. This week's been pretty hectic (although the same thing could be said of this month). This prompt was by, well, me. Hope you enjoy it.

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Disclaimer: Musical Disclaimer Number Diddle: Shot through the heart, and you're to blame- Lawyers give humans a bad name.

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A plume of smoke, impossibly fine and dainty, curled into his nostrils. A blue light illuminated his face with a ghostly glow, the hollows of his cheeks highlighted for the world to see. A few ominous beats, and the light disappeared; only blackness remained.

"_Oh, come on, Vincent. I bet it's no different to what you used to use back in the day,"_ Reeve had said, in that gently cajoling way he had. Reeve was persuasive in all the right ways- you had to give him that.

In between sighing with all the pathos of a Greek hero, he took the time to throw a stunned glare at the woman with the nerve to wear leather trousers in his presence. She was remarkably rotund, so much so that it looked like she had crammed two live buffalo into her slacks instead of thighs. He shuddered, and turned back to his nemesis.

"_Hm? Sorry. Not my area. Maybe try Barret?"_ was Cloud's only contribution to the dilemma. And he would have followed the advice, but for the fact that Barret never picked up the phone, meaning he would be forced to listen to the rather puerile answerphone message the man had recorded. ("What up, fool? Leave your message after the beep, and I'll see if I can get back to you when my ass gives a damn. Later!")

His mug of tea, woefully neglected, stood silently, as cold as Shiva's lemonade. A half-eaten biscuit lay forlornly beside it, probably reminiscing about the days when it had infiltrated the office with its oaty goodness.

Darkness became unearthly light again, and the fabled blue screen of death rejoined its staring contest with Vincent Valentine.

"_The hell? I don't know anything about repairs. 'Cause unlike computers, my airships don't crash,"_ Cid had offered.

He really was running out of options. Reeve was away on business, Tifa was likewise busy, and although Red XIII was free he was slightly tentative about asking for IT solutions from a creature bereft of opposable thumbs.

Which left him with only one option. Sighing, he dialled the number.

Five minutes later, an uproarious cackle at Buffalo Thigh's expense marked the arrival of Yuffie Kisaragi. After wiping the tears from her eyes ("Gawd, I feel bad for not having tickets!"), she popped her head over his shoulders and started tapping away at his keyboard.

"So. Where's your porn?"

He ignored her, choosing instead to look at her fingers dancing across his keyboard. She had a strange rhythm about it all, an internal beat that dictated the march of the machine.

"Honestly, Vince. What kind of red-blooded man has no porn on their computer?" she tutted. The blue screen of death had disappeared, replace by luminous green text menus that he didn't even care to look at, never mind understand.

"The type who has some degree of control over his baser instincts," he seethed. Yuffie's sexual innuendos were not appreciated in a working environment.

"Yeah, whatever, Reverend. Leave this to me- I'll be done in about fifteen minutes. Get yourself a cake or something. Get me one too. Cinnamon swirl, bitch," was her answer, rendered as laconically as Yuffie felt necessary. Grumbling, he got to his feet, and went about his newly-acquired errand.

When he came back, clutching four cinnamon swirls for her and a scone for him, Yuffie had disappeared into the hum of the office, but she left behind a tamed machine. Mentally thanking her, he typed his in his username (V_Valentinex4) and password (Ellipsis).

The machine whirred into action, and his desktop popped up. Immediately, he threw himself over the screen, drawing a confused look from Buffalo Thighs.

Plastered over his desktop, in a tiled wallpaper, was what appeared to be a picture of Yuffie Kisaragi, wearing very little indeed. All his icons were gone, save for a single word document. With a swift click of his mouse, he opened it, to cover the wallpaper.

"_Dear Supertard_

_I did you a favour and uploaded some porn. It's against company policy, btw, so better not show Reeve, or he'll have your rump slow cooked and served with wine. Oh, and your wallpaper's locked. Don't you just love the smell of blackmail in the morning? Better bring me those cinnamon swirls. And some chocolate gateau, too. _

_Or you could just carry on perving over the picture like the horny little vamp I know you are. Either way._

_Love, Yuffie Kisaragi  
_

_P.S: Oh, btw. You haven't actually seen my goodies. The picture's photo-shopped. I'll give you extra points if you guess which TV star I got the boobs from._

He groaned. Blackmail, already? It was only Tuesday. With a sigh, he switched the machine off at the plug, and grabbed the cinnamon swirls. But instead of gateau, he was going to serve Yuffie Kisaragi a big slice of revenge.

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A/N: Yup, another innuendo fic. They're fun to write. Feel free to let your fanboy/girl meters rise. And, again, there may be a place for a part II for this, in which justice and cinnamon swirls are served. I'm making good use of that T rating, huh?


	32. Height Difference

A/N: Well, this prompt was from Szahara again. Thanks, and thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed. I'll get up to date on those replies, I promise!

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Disclaimer: Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Me, if I claim to own Final Fantasy.

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The hours skip and jump by with nothing that resembles even _loose_ felicity to the clock. In fact, it's worrying how much time they're wasted here, in this world of colourful plastics and raised voices. It was entirely her idea, of course, and when Yuffie gets ideas, she always acts on them.

Which is why he has no idea where she is.

There's something mildly scary about his surroundings. He's up to his elbows in primary colours, the bright ones most frequently featured in madmen's dreams. Although, none of the other patrons seem to mind.

They don't mind, but their parents do. It's a faintly discomforting thought that, five meters from your child, there is a grown man clad in leather and a cape, frantically pawing his way through the ball pit.

"Why does Mini have to be a spell, anyway?" he grumbles, tossing aside another handful of reds, yellows and blues. Somewhere in the ball-pit is Yuffie, and he has to collect her before she's crushed by a child. And before Reeve notices that they're three hours late for work.

Somewhere, he hears a very high pitched peal of laughter.

Instantly, his human hand shoots towards it. Something quite sharp stabs his hand, then another peal of laughter. Blood wells on his palm, and Yuffie, five inches tall and having a blast, climbs onto it.

"You, madam, are in trouble." he growls, bringing her up to his face.

She says something, but his ears don't work at that high a frequency.

Suddenly, his palm is bathed in warm green. Then, his arm practically snaps as Yuffie regains her normal size whist still on his hand.

"I said, 'You seem to be having fun, playing with all the little kiddies,'" she chuckles.

He groans, and lifts himself to his feet. The mothers are starting to become angry and incredulous, and he doesn't want to deal with a herd of them. Sometimes, he wonders if Yuffie really has skipped out on the whole growing up process.

As they are shepherded gently away from the children by the advancing matriarchs, she lifts herself onto her tiptoes and plants a kiss on his jaw. He smiles. Maybe a height difference isn't such a bad thing.

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A/N: This was weird to write. At first it was going to be even weirder. I was doing recipe books and all sorts of weird stuff.

Also, after a while of having more prompts than I knew what to do with, I'm now running pretty low. Any ideas, guys?


	33. Unconditional

A/N: This prompt was from serenbach, and given a title by yours truly. Thanks! (...Even though I forgot what the actual prompt was about and had to delve around in the reviews to find it again.)

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Disclaimer: There are plenty of fish in the sea. But none of them own Final Fantasy, either.

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It isn't the most romantic setting in the world. But it doesn't matter, because he's not in love with her. Absolutely, positively not, with a zero percent chance of that ever changing.

His fingers twitch.

For one, it just isn't the done thing. She's, well, _young_. He isn't. In body, maybe (and even then, you're pushing it) but most definitely not in mind. Whereas she's as juvenile as the day she was born.

Twitch.

Of course, he can't say that. She's not a kid anymore, she's a grown woman. And not a bad-looking one, either. Although, he's not interested. Not remotely.

Twitch.

Why are his fingers twitching? Because Reno is a rat-bastard, and his fingers would feel most at home wrapped around the redhead's neck, showing the arrogant little swine how a _real _Turk chokes someone.

Twitch.

Yuffie pops her head up at him, and throws him a grin as thin as discount coffee filters. Then something gets her attention, urgently, and she returns her gaze to his shoes. He doesn't care.

Twitch.

Her stomach is swollen. He shouldn't notice, but he does, and he wonders exactly _how long_ she's been keeping this a secret from everyone. Well, it's her own fault, and he doesn't feel sorry for her. Not one bit.

Twitch.

"S-sorry there, Vince," she says, popping her head back above the table. "It happens. When you're, y'know."

A kindly waiter, much too old to be wearing the uniform of a lowly hamburger outlet worker, slops a mop and bucket near them, and waits for Yuffie to finish throwing up over Vincent's shoes.

"Morning sickness, y'know..." she grins, paper-thin again. He doesn't point out that it's three in the afternoon. "Hey, y'okay, Vinners? C'mon. You've stood in dragon guts before. You can handle this."

"Of course."

Twitch.

She looks at him appraisingly, almost..._maternally._ Like he's a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Liar," she whispers. He cocks his eyebrow. "Your fingers twitch when you lie."

So, he isn't fine. So, he wants to kill Reno for getting Yuffie pregnant and then running off, his tail between his legs (and his hand between a waitress's, no doubt). So, pregnant women aren't his favourite thing in the world, because the last time he saw one it was Lucrecia, and she was only pregnant because she'd gone off and had sex with Hojo because she couldn't stand to be around him.

"Gawd, Vince. Penny for your thoughts?"

She's worried now, gnawing cutely on her bottom lip. It can't taste very nice. But instead of saying what's on his mind, he simply heaves a great sigh and turns to the waiter.

"Thanks. When you're done, could I impose upon you to serve us two...double whompers, and a child's meal?"

He's not falling in love with her.

Twitch.

He can't. Not here, in a cramped fast food outlet, with vomit pooling conspicuously over his shoes.

Twitch.

It's completely ridiculous. She has a baby on the way, anyway, and he doesn't intend to play daddy with the poor little thing.

Twitch.

He's just worried, because, as she started to retch over his favourite footwear, he didn't feel the least bit disgusted. And if that's not what love feels like, he doesn't know what is.

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A/N: So, yeah. A little bit of a twist in this one; now they _both_ have history. Why did I do it? Felt like it. Also, I don't do enough drabbles where the path of love is rough rather than smooth.

As a reminder, I'm running slightly low on prompts these days. If you have any, send them in!


	34. Candlelit Dinner

A/N: This prompt was from TornAngelWings. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Kids, copyright theft is a crime. But only if you get caught.

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Dating is a dangerous game. And no one knows that better than Cloud Strife.

First, you have to make arrangements for said date. Not only does this mean finding a night when no one is plotting to destroy the world, but it also means talking. To strangers. Over the phone. Luckily, although his phone skills aren't good, he has some advantages. Once he tells them his name, even the fanciest restaurants trip over their feet to provide them a stellar table.

Step two is to keep it a secret from Tifa, so it'll be all 'surprising' and 'special'. Which is easier said than done, because Tifa can read him like a book. Doesn't help that she knows how to get him to talk better than anyone else. Normal interrogation, sure. Tifa interrogation? Those secrets are spilling out like coffee beans.

Provided you get past step two (which is about a one in fifteen chance), step three is to actually get to the restaurant. Which, because Fenrir is built for one, is trickier than it appears. It usually involves taxis. Meaning more talking on the phone.

And then, step four: after arriving at the fancy restaurant and being ushered to the romantically candlelit table (even the general public is trying to set Cloud and Tifa up), one has to order.

Step five is the hardest: make small talk, whilst simultaneously being romantic and not eating like a pig. And whilst everyone's favourite hero can multi-task, that's asking a bit much. Particularly the small talk part.

Still, tonight is a good night, and step five is coming off without a hitch. His dinner is half eaten, the bottle of wine half full. They've reached the impasse, the part where some sort of mild telepathy occurs and the budding couple agree to look across the table at each other with eyes that lead to kissing at worst and some damn good exercise at best.

But what Cloud doesn't realise is that dating is a more dangerous game than even he would suppose. Because, no matter where you are, night or day, rain or shine, there is always the outside chance that Yuffie Kisaragi will crash through the window, grappling with a man in a balaclava.

The date deteriorates in a matter of seconds. Tifa jumps away from the table, before pulling on her gloves and joining the fray. Cloud's (frankly unpronounceable) dinner ends up seasoned with glass and plastered all over Balaclava Guy's back as Yuffie smashes his head into the table once, twice, three times. Before he's had chance to gather himself (and come to terms with the fact that his best-laid plans have once again been thwarted), Tifa has picked up the wine bottle and smashed it over the perp's head. There's a muffled howl, and Balaclava Guy goes down like a sack of bricks, Yuffie still attached like a lichen to a rock.

"Oh, hey, Teef. What're you doing here?" the ninja whistles, finally releasing her captive's chest. His head hits the ground with a resounding thud.

"Well, I...Uh..." she hedges. Somehow, it's embarassing that she's only just started actually dating Cloud.

"Dinner." Cloud grunts. Balaclava Guy lifts his head an inch off the ground, so Cloud picks up his chair and smashes him in the head with it. Someone had to pay for ruining his date.

"Hey, don't you think you're being a little rough?" Yuffie asks, looking vaguely worried.

"He's a criminal, right? He deserves it." Cloud growls. Actually, he's shown admirable self restraint. He was half-tempted to stab the guy with a candlestick.

Yuffie flashes him a wan smile, and carefully removes the balaclava. A shroud of black hair, matted with no small amount of blood, falls out. A shake of the head, and Vincent Valentine's crimson eyes are open- and looking very angry.

"Yuffie. Whatever happened to damage limitation on our training exercises?" he hisses, running a palm over his head. It comes away sticky.

"Iunno. I got caught up in the moment. That makes it two-one to me. Reeve's gonna be so surprised when he finds out his best gunman's being beat." Yuffie giggles.

"Wait...This was a training exercise?" Cloud asks, slowly. He looks around for that candlestick- it'd look pretty good impaled in Yuffie's gut.

"Well, Vince. I hope you're proud of yourself- now there's someone other than you who won't be getting laid tonight." Yuffie snickers. Vincent rises like the bell at a test-your-strength machine and picks her up by the scruff of the neck, mouthing curses all the while.

"By the way, Cloud," he mutters lowly, as he drags Yuffie out of the restaurant in full view of the stunned diners, "you have an impeccable taste in wine."

Yup. Dating. A lot more dangerous than it first appears.

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A/N: Now who, upon seeing the title of this prompt, expected it to be romantic? Sorry, but gotta have my little twists sometimes.


	35. Little Black Mess

A/N: This prompt comes from kaito142. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Rub a dub dub, Three men in a tub, And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, and a lawyer that's hunting for me.

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Black is his colour. Well, after red. Red is most definitely his colour, but black is his second colour. If that makes sense. So he _should_ like her new outfit. Gawd knows, the fellas at the WRO sure do. Stylish, perky, showing just enough skin to wet their lips- it's perfect for duty.

"Outfit? Oh," he says, rustling his newspaper. He hasn't gotten any less boring than when she last saw him.

"Yes, Vinnie. My outfit. Vampy likes?" she asks, drawing circles on the table with her finger. It's Cloud's table, so she probably shouldn't. But damn, is it dusty. She heard from Tifa that Chocobo-head had taken off, but she hadn't really been expecting-

"...priate," Vincent finished heavily. He gives her a violent glare, as if to accuse her of not listening. She waves her hand, a pleasingly careless gesture, and tells him to stop mumbling like an idiot.

"I said, it's somewhat inappropriate. In truth, I wasn't aware it was an _outfit_. I thought it a pair of underwear gone horribly wrong," he mutters.

"Ouch. Just ouch, Vince." she whistles. Oh well. She didn't really care anyway. (Although, she did spend three days setting up this little interview.)

"In my day, black was a mourning colour," he says, in an exasperated tone. She grins.

"Only thing you're mourning is your fashion sense," she replies, like clockwork. It's always like this- he's mean, he regrets it, he opens himself for a joke in some sort of weird, masochistic I'm-sorry gesture. And she always, always bites.

"Hmph. Actually, I'm mourning the love of my life, who was snatched from me by Hojo and went on to spawn the greatest threat to the Planet ever to have existed," he sniffs. Oops. Not like clockwork, then. Very much not like clockwork.

"Aww, come on, Vince," she pouts, rearranging herself over the table so she's upside down, looking up at his chin.

"Yuffie, I have no wish to see your...belly button," he says, a half-snarl in the last words.

"Right, right..." she says lightly, waving her hand again. "Why? Make you hot?"

"Most certainly not," he deadpans. It's like a game of verbal chess, except she can predict his moves in advance. Knight to e3, taking care of the Queen. Just like usual.

"Oh. So, it makes me hot," she tries.

He snorts. "Ridiculous. You're barely even an adult."

Shrug. Wave. Talk. "You're just jealous because I pull black off better than you." Just like clockwork.

"That's neither here nor there."

Clockwork's boring. Routine is boring. Vince is boring.

"In fact, I believe you should avoid wearing such an outfit in future. It's distracting," he goes on.

Oh, wait. Bingo. "Wait. So, at first, you said it was underwear. Now, you don't want me to wear it."

"Yuffie, no-"

"And also, you think I look like a kid. And my belly-button is distracting you."

"Yuffie, I fail to see-"

"Perv."

He sighs, defeated. After so many years of verbal rust, it seems Yuffie is too quick for him. Again. She smiles her saccharine smile. Maybe she didn't get an opinion on her outfit. But at least she knows he prefers black underwear.

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A/N: Another 'Vincent opens mouth, Yuffie inserts foot' kinda thing. Except, with a little bit of bitter-sweet boredom going on. Honestly, I had quite a bit of trouble with this prompt. It's been a long week.


	36. Primary Colours

A/N: This is one of my own little ideas. Enjoy.

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Disclaimer: Heaven is a good song and a good book. Hell is being sued for using them.

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A picture is worth one thousand words, or so they say. He's not so sure. It depends on the picture, really. And how are you supposed to understand one thousand words all at once, anyway? You're bound to miss at least a few of them.

That's how he feels with her, sometimes. He knows she isn't like him- all shades of grey, shadows and Gothic architecture rendered out of perspective. She's simple, like primary colours. Red one moment, yellow the next, always bouncing from one emotion to the next via perfect circles and straight lines. And yet, he can't quite grasp the form of her mind. It's like a few of her one thousand words went missing somewhere along the way, and the story isn't quite complete without them. (Of course, he's always known she was a few words shy of a full dictionary, but that's entirely besides the point.)

It wouldn't usually matter. Generally, he just makes do with what she gives him, and enjoy the ride. But this time, it's different. He needs those missing words, those fragments of lines and perspectives that make up _her_.

Because she said they should get married last week. And he can't, for the life of him, work out if she's joking.

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A/N: Just a short shot of befuddlement.


	37. Dishonesty

A/N: This prompt was from SragonZ. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Maybe if I went all puppy eyed, they'd let me own Final Fantasy.

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Lies, lies, lies. That's where she's in her element; it's her forte, her niche. No one could possibly be more dishonest than her.

"_Oh, Vinnie. Of course I paid for them!"_

Little white lies never hurt anyone. Of course not. That's like saying that a drop of rain can drown a whale. So much of life is false anyways, so what's another untruth when the pile's so big already?

"_Don't worry, Cid- of course you don't look like a dork."_

But where's the line between little white lies and great big black ones? Where's the limit where that tiny little falsehood becomes toxic, starts eating away at you like acid in your blood?

"_Don't worry- we've done it a thousand times before. Nothing'll go wrong."_

She wonders sometimes. The rain keeps pouring, one drop for every lie that's left her tongue. She's afraid it might never stop.

"_Oh, come on, Teef. This is Vinnie we're talking about. Of course he'll be okay."_

Maybe there is no line. Maybe it's one of those things, like lead poisoning. It never really leaves you; it just builds up, slowly, quietly, until you go insane.

"_We're not having one. He wouldn't want it..."_

She shakes her umbrella off. The stone is already slick with rain- so slippery, so fast. How long has she been standing here, anyway? She can't remember. The priest is long gone, after his little spiel about heaven. That's a lie, too. It's not heaven, it's the Lifestream, and even so, she doubts Vince is there anyway. Surely the Planet will purge itself of him, thanks to all that kooky stuff Hojo did.

"_He died in the line of duty. That's all there is to it."_

Of course, she lied then, too. He was dying anyway, a little more each day, slowly losing his grip on a world he didn't belong in. The bullets (so many of them!) may have been the kicker, but it was always happening, below the surface.

"Yuffie, are you okay? You're soaked..."

Tifa hugs her from behind. She has motherly arms. Yuffie didn't even hear her. The rain is so loud now, every drop echoing like thunder, shouting every lie she's ever told.

"Yuffie?"

She turns, and shows Tifa a crooked smile. It probably won't be straight anymore- not for years and years, at least. Tifa's eyes, big and brown, are full of deepness and sadness and stuff she probably won't tell anyone, not even Cloud. That's dishonesty, in a way. It's comforting, somehow, that she's not the only one lying. Yuffie gathers her strength.

"_Don't worry. I'll survive."_

The trouble with being a good liar is that everyone believes you.

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A/N: Decided to go a little darker than usual. It's been a while since I did. That said, thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed- and much thanks to everyone who's sent in a prompt!


	38. Left Behind

A/N: This prompt was by serenbach. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: You break it, you buy it. But I'll see how far I can twist it, first.

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Clouds break an amethyst sky, scattered blurs of looming indigo splayed by a lachrymose hand. Liquid fire dances on their faces, every flicker a sign that they're alive.

It's been three weeks now.

The lurch, the scrape, the desperate snatching of hands- then came the fall, both of them, tumbling down into North Crater, the ridge tumbling behind them.

Reeve stared, open mouthed, left to find help. Left them there, in the cold and the gloom and the _wild_.

Her eyes droop, but he never sleeps. He keeps watch, her pale hand twined with his, abandoned in their untamed Eden.

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A/N: Sorry for the shortness. I had an itch to do some semi-poetic description, and thus came over all drabbley.


	39. Assassin

A/N: This prompt is from Szahara again. Thanks!

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Yet Another Musical Disclaimer: Run and tell all of the angels- this could take all night. I'm busy fighting Square's legal team, for use of copyright.

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Ninja are cool. Never claim otherwise. That is the first rule of living with Yuffie Kisaragi. You're not allowed to criticise her sandals that she never wears (even though she criticises _your_ shoes all the time), because they are, apparently, for ninja. Or samurai. She can't remember which. It doesn't matter, in all truth, because she can't walk in them anyway; the last time she did, she was carrying a full carton of eggs, and neither of you are keen to repeat the experience of getting it out of each other's hair.

You are allowed to wonder, however, why she makes rice balls when she obviously prefers junk foods.

"I like fingering 'em," she grins, fully aware of her innuendo. Are you blushing? Perhaps. Best, then, to move on to the next thing you are not allowed to even sneeze in the direction of: her ninja outfit.

"It's cool. Black is good camouflage for night ops." she says breezily. You decide not to relay Reeve's concerns that it is not as good a camouflage in broad daylight, which is when the mission takes place, or the fact that ninja did not actually wear black outfits when moving around.

In fact, it seems the only aspect of her 'cool' ninja-ness that is authentic is the skill she possesses in the ninja arts. (Excluding geography. It _is_ a ninja art, but she claims it just isn't 'fly' enough to qualify.)

No; Yuffie, in her loud, brash arrogance, does not seem to match any of the parameters you are told make a ninja. What, then, is she?

An annoyance? Certainly. Awakening to find yourself tied up and with a feather duster being led around your toes is possibly the most irritating thing in the world. (Although, secretly, you find it enjoyable in a way you probably shouldn't.)

A child? But of course. Upon losing an argument, it is her practice to pout until you admit she's right. (Her reasoning is that, as a woman, she is always right, regardless of whether she is _correct_ or not.)

But none of these definitions seem to satisfy. It seems that she's just too complex to sum up.

"Vincent? You're quiet." Cloud says. You shake your head, and your own hair tickles your ears. It needs cutting, again. Bothersome.

"I wish. You wouldn't know it, but he's a screamer in bed." Yuffie huffs, stirring her cocktail languidly. Tifa looks at you with an expression of utmost worry. You crease your stone forehead into a frown.

Is she a ninja? No. A social assassin? The very best.

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A/N: Experimenting with second person perspective here. Had to be done sooner or later, I'm afraid. It's very hard to find good style models for it, however, which is why this may have come off awkwardly.


	40. Taste In Movies

A/N: This prompt was from drillpill. Cheers.

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Disclaimer: As a great man once said, nothing really exists outside your own mind. And I don't even own the stuff _there_.

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Vincent Valentine is known for being a man of many mysteries, his shoe size being the very least of them, his fashion sense being the very greatest. His taste in movies falls somewhere in between.

Which is bad. Because Yuffie Kisaragi, prowling the DVD aisle in the local supermarket for a present that's a month late and completely forgotten, has no idea what to look for.

Kung fu movies? No. He has enough action in his life already- she makes sure of that. Besides, she has problems imagining anyone bald in the vicinity of Valentine. When he and Rude stand next to each other, reality spasms.

Children's films? There's potential. Maybe a little bit of old, creepy man trying to get back his lost childhood potential, but potential all the same. But most films like that have random spontaneous singing. Reality spasms again.

Film noir? Well, Yuffie, why don't you just give him a noose for his birthday, since you've decided to make him even more depressed than he already is? She clonks her forehead with the heel of her palm, trying to make it _work_.

Romance? Unlikely. Romantic comedy? Even less likely. Bromantic comedies? Much as she'd like to say otherwise, that's pretty unlikely too. What the hell kind of movies does he _like_?

"Ah, Yuffie. I wasn't expecting to see you here."

It's like the tolling of a bell. An electric wave goes through her spine ending in her ass, and she spins around like an angry cat. He's staring at her, their weekly groceries in one hand, and a box of chocolates in the other.

"I was, uh, looking. For, y'know, movies."

He raises his eyebrow. "That could be inferred from the fact that you're in the movie aisle, Yuffie."

Oh, _joy_. It's Bring Your Brain To Work Day.

"Uh, I was gonna stock up our entertainment cupboard. What kinda movies you like, anyway?" she babbles.

He looks at her again, having realised, no doubt, that the aforementioned cupboard does not exist. But he still huffs, and answers her question.

"Anything besides romantic comedies," he grumbles. Her eyes ask why before her mouth does, so he continues quickly. "After all, I basically _live_ in a romantic comedy."

And with that, he whisks away to the checkouts, basket in hand, no doubt fearing some sort of divine, Yuffie flavoured retribution for giving what (she thinks) was actually quite a witty appraisal of their relationship.

But it doesn't really help much. But he _did _say anything...

Later, Yuffie plops down into the chair, and thrusts her present into his hands, explaining very, very quickly that it was his birthday last month and she didn't get him a present so she is now and how does he like it and should she take it back?

He looks at her like an owl. Not because his eyes have gone round with delight, but because his eyebrows have suddenly shot downwards.

"'Work your abs right with your celebrity coach. Get fit quick, or your money back,'" he reads, not amused in the very worst possible way.

"Yeah. Fitness DVD. Y'know, the ones with all the young, sexy women in tight leotards? My dad likes 'em." she babbles.

"Ugh," he grumbles, tossing the DVD straight over the back of the sofa. "Please, Yuffie. I like to think that, seeing as I have you, I'm not nearly so _desperate_ as your father."

He gets a giggle for his efforts, but there's still nothing to watch.

"I would have preferred a move with characters I can relate to," he says after a short silence. "For example, James Bond."

It takes her a few, horrible seconds to work out that he isn't joking.

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A/N: Phew. Sorry about this; I wasn't feeling too hot when I wrote it, due to paintball-based exhaustion. Also, yes, I referenced our own pop culture within the FFVII setting. I don't consider it too great a crime for a short bite of fiction. Actually, James Bond is not too far a cry from Vincent. Who's with me?


	41. Uncertain Terms

A/N: This is just another one of my little things. (Y'know, the ones that happen roughly every five chapters?)

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Disclaimer: My sources say that Hell's still pretty toasty, so no ownership for me.

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He was used to uncertainty. A little bit of uhm-ing and ah-ing never hurt anyone. (Unless, of course, you're uhm-ing and ah-ing about the direction in which to throw your armed grenade. This may cause you, and everyone within a ten foot-radius, some problems). The list of things you can't predict in life is endless: the weather, the stock markets, whether Barret is going to brush his teeth before bed. So, why bother? Better to embrace the confusion, he felt. Allow for it, instead of seeking refuge in badly made predictions.

Based on that, it was fair to say that his opinions of horoscopes were pretty dim. Yes, they were relevant occasionally. But if you shoot one bullet at a target everyday without aiming, you're bound to get a bull's eye sooner or later. Law of probability.

But, so far as predictions went, he had to admit that this was, for want of a better word, a humdinger. It hit the nail on the head, scored a bull's eye, and whatever other clichéd expression he'd like to use.

And, like so many sceptics, his instinctual reaction was that it was a fake.

"What're you, nuts? This restaurant belongs to one of my distant cousins. And let me tell you, Vincey Boy," Yuffie huffed, "the Kisaragi Clan takes fortune cookies seriously."

"Yuffie, you take _larceny_ seriously. Seriousness is no indication of truthfulness, honesty, moral values or anything associated with them," he replied, the ball of paper scrunched up very tightly in the palm of his hand.

"You can't cheat the fortune cookie, Vince," she said, wiggling her eyebrows and adopting a forlornly sagelike expression.

He sniffed. "I refuse to believe that this fortune is legitimate."

Now it was her turn to sniff. "Oh, chocobo poop. What's it say, anyway?"

He turned over the (very crumpled) scrap of paper to her, letting it flutter down from his hand like a tiny paper feather.

"It says that I shall have a revolutionary experience," he explained, as Yuffie read the fortune for herself. "As it happens, my next mission in the WRO is to police a protest against oil fields near Corel."

Yuffie broke into delighted giggles. He raised an eyebrow.

"Yup, they're Kisaragis, alright," she grinned. "They pulled a fortune cookie prank."

"Aha. So, the fortune _isn't_ legitimate."

"Yes and no," she giggled. "You see how they've put the original Wutaian script above the foreign translation?"

Suddenly, he began to feel uneasy. Probably the sauce. Definitely not any sort of premonition of upcoming mischief.

"Well, the Wutaian says something completely different to the translation. This actually means 'you will scream like a virgin.'"

He raised another eyebrow, and she broke into what could only be defined as great waves of guffaws.

"Firstly, that's vulgar and immature. Secondly, I do not scream," he huffed. "The prediction is invalid."

"Ah...excuse me, sir?"

It was a waiter. Probably after a tip or something of that sort.

"You do not scream?" he asked, some sort of half smirk on his lips. Vincent shook his head.

"You will think differently, sir, when you see the bill."

Yuffie wiggled her eyebrows, and turned the fortune over. On the back was printed, in very small letters, '2000 gil.'

"Can't cheat the fortune cookie, Vince," she smirked. He raked his fingers down his forehead and fought the urge to scream.

Prophecies: unreliable, except when self-fulfilling.

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A/N: Ho-hum. Quite a pointless one there.


	42. Dress To Depress

A/N: This prompt was from Kaida Ukitake. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: These disclaimers make suing me as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. But why would you shoot a fish, anyway?

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He wasn't aware, in the early days of his awakening, how vulnerable his apathy made him. Of course, not caring about things like pain or discomfort were boons, but not caring about his comrades made for some awkward moments around the campfire. The real turning point came, as always, not through revelation but misadventure.

"Hey. Can I ask you for a favour, Vincent?" a voice had said. It was soft, almost as soft as the tugging at his elbow. It could only be Aerith.

He'd mumbled and tried to look interested by way of reply, allowing her to guide him gently to her tent, talking and laughing all the way.

"So, you see, I need a guy to do it, but Cloud already did and I don't think Cid and Barret would," she chattered on. He tried to look like he was listening, but his mind was somewhere else, trapped in a tank, submerged in something clear and foul, watching Hojo's grinning maw stretched and refracted by the curvature of the glass...

And, with the charming ruthlessness that had made her so much money selling flowers outside the Honey Bee Inn, Aerith capitalised on the opportunity.

"So, how does it feel, Vincent? Tacky, or not too much?" she asked, smiling at him with the sort of grin a shark uses to cheer up its friends. "I tried to fit it to your style."

He wondered, for a second, what on earth she was talking about. Bereft of any useful input, he just nodded.

"Wow, that's great! I thought it was a little showy, myself, but I guess you have that kind of taste. Kinda surprising, actually..." she babbled, rummaging around in her things again.

Suddenly, her head whipped round in a swirl of flaxen brown; something broke, and someone swore.

"OH. MY. GAWD."

He rolled his eyes. Yuffie Kisaragi. The one member of their team that, try as he might, he couldn't remain indifferent too. She was just too...lively.

"Aerith, this is _fan-tas-tic_! How'd you do it?" the ninja babbled, running in and apparently forgetting about whatever it was she'd dropped outside the tent.

"Oh, it was easy, actually...I just asked, and he agreed straight away!"

There was a burst of tittering from the two women. He rolled his eyes again.

"Wow! That easy, huh? I never thought I'd see ol' Vinny Valentine wearing a dress!"

His first reaction was annoyance, both at being called Vinny and at Yuffie's blatant lies. But it soon graduated, through anger to shock, then to amazement. How _exactly_ had Aerith managed to get him out of his clothes and into a black satin evening gown without him even noticing?

"Well," the flower girl said, looking him up and down, "I guess the guy in the shop was right- there really is a market for this kind of thing."

He felt his forehead crease as he thought back. Not only had he been seen in a most compromising position, but he'd learned something about Cloud Strife that he would have deeply preferred not to know.

Needless to say, he paid more attention in future.

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A/N: Can anyone say 'crack'? I thought so.


	43. Hero

A/N: This prompt was from CossetteLune. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Walk softly, and carry a noisy cricket. It worked for the Men in Black, and in the event of lawsuit, it'll work for me too.

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Being a hero is a lot of work. You have to save the day, comfort the people and be crucified for any personal wrongdoings before going home to an inevitably strained relationship and the fact that, due to your extracurricular life-saving, villain-bashing hobbies, you have never had time to learn to cook. It's a life of personal resentment, sacrifice for a 'greater good' that you're not sure exists, and a veritable flood of microwavable lasagne.

So, certainly not a commitment you can make lightly. And yet (strangely, considering he once spent thirty years power-napping and she's as lazy as sin), they both believe that it's a career choice that they can swing.

The problem is that, if they're both the hero, it raises the inevitable question of who will be relegated to sidekick (or, even worse, damsel/dandy in distress).

Of course, he thinks he should be the hero. He has more to atone for, more time in which to do it, and a body that's near indestructible. He's got the talent, the grisly reputation, and the overall levels of sheer _badassery_ necessary to deter criminals.

She scoffs at this. She's the one with all the charisma, the one the people love. How can you defend the populace whilst simultaneously scaring the living hell out of it? No, better to have a pretty face and a sly eye. Let the bad guys underestimate you, then show them that your smooth skin and winning smile hide a ferocious warrior.

And it's not like she's qualified to be a damsel in distress. Sure, she's been tied upside down to a mountain and almost dropped hundreds of feet to the predictably pointy rocks below (a rather passée adaptation of tying a girl to the train tracks if she ever saw one), but she's made up for it since then with a combination of sticky fingers and shuriken-slinging.

And that may be true, but he's not exactly helpless, either. He's a self-proclaimed monster who has three demons living in his soul, an ammunitions closet that makes the Navy jealous and one very spiky metal hand just in case he feels nasty.

It's all moot points, really. Neither of them would ever allow the other to go off into the night, practising crime-fighting tomfoolery. He can't get over how very _fragile _she is (the scars on her shoulders, back, thighs, all branded into his mind). He can't risk her to it anymore, not now that he's awake and free. But she can't let him go off as the sacrificial lamb for something he's already atoned for, either. A perceived debt to society and a red cape do not a hero make.

In the end, that's what breaks them: the possessiveness, the instinct to hold each other to their chest and never let go. They wouldn't be fighting for society; they'd be fighting for each other. They're not really cut out to be heroes; they have to settle for being people instead.

Which is bad for the citizens of Edge. But at least it means that Cloud always has something to do.

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A/N: Ugh. I meant this to be better, but I'm tired and full of steak. Next prompt should be pretty fun, though.


	44. Dominatrix

A/N: This (rather unusual) prompt was from Szahara again. Thanks, I think...

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Disclaimer: A study into subliminal advertising suggests that Colgate I am not breaking the law toothpaste prevents abrasion of vital tooth enamel.

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It's rough, every ridge, fold and bump echoing the contours of her fingertips, clutching as she draws them across it, drawing out the contact. Her mouth breaks into a secret smile. It was cold, at first, until she started her little ritual of grabbing and tugging and feeling. Now it's warm, warmed by the heels of her palms. She takes a guilty look around, then presses her nose to it and inhales; it's musty, rugged. A shiver tumbles down her spine and settles itself into her knees. She feels a little light-headed, a little giddy.

Her breath hitches, and suddenly her gentle fingers have become iron talons. Her fingers dig in, and it's warm and softer than she expected, softer than she thought his skin would be. A moment of half-hearted resistance, and then it melts to the shape of her hand, in glorious submission. She marvels at it, the moment when it breaks, when it betrays him and obeys her. She inhales deeply, the air swelling in her breast, and another shudder breaks through her, but this time it's a good kind of shudder, a strong kind. She feels more confident now, than when she started, and ready to get on with the job in hand.

She removes her hand from the thigh, and slowly inches around, around and upwards. Her heart jumps, just a little, when she finds what she's looking for; the buttocks. Guilt flashes briefly again, but she squashes it down with religious fervour. They're smooth, smooth but rumbled, settling nicely into the palms of her hand (every inch of her skin supersensitive to the texture now). She squeezes. Hard.

There's another tiny hint of resistance as the skin refuses, stubborn, just like him. But submission comes almost instantly, and a thrill kicks in her gut. She shouldn't be doing this, but she is, and she's enjoying it. The hips jump a little, closer to her face. She mock-considers for a second, almost drunk on the sense of power, before slowly, teasingly descending, and drawing her tongue laboriously, luxuriously, downwards. She can almost hear him groan, the hiss of air escaping his lips-

"Yuffie. What, pray tell, are you doing to my trousers?"

She spins round, instinctively tossing the slacks on the tumble dryer behind her back. He looks at her with an expression of bewilderedness. He looks almost naïve, almost _innocent_. As she thinks it, a dark thrill kicks in her gut, like when she's stolen an ID card or something, something important that will ruin the lives of whoever doesn't have it- something that makes her feel powerful, in control. The heat in the washing-room teases a few beads of sweat from her forehead.

"I-I was just checking the leather, and lemme tell ya, Vince, it's in bad shape, baaaaaaaad shape. I mean, you ever wash it, it stinks, and gawd, it practically crumbles in your hands, it needs some repairs, bad, and what're you doing, anyway, sneaking in here when I'm busy, what are ya, some kind of pervert?" she says, the words flowing out of her like a hurricane, leaving her feeling all light headed again, but for a different reason.

"I came to ask you when I can have my trousers back," he grumbles, clearly suspicious of something. "I shall require them if I'm to go to the corner shop and procure the usual quantities of milk, bread, and ice cream."

She breathes again, steadies herself. "You can have them back when I'm finished with them. Gawd, possessive much?"

He shrugs in exasperation, and walks away. Her eyes are instinctively drawn to his boxers. Just like him to only have _one_ pair of trousers.

When she's _quite_ sure he's gone, she returns to the task at hand- before she got distracted, of course. She takes another guilty look around, and then drops her shorts. She's wanted to do this for _years_.

Fifteen seconds later, she admires herself in the mirror. The trousers actually suit her. She grins sneakily. Who'd have thought she could rock the leather look better than even Vincy Valentine himself?

She sighs, and thinks how many clothes she has left to wash- and how most of them are hers. It was actually an accomplishment to get him to take turns washing, considering he owned, like, two bits of clothing, including the trousers currently rolled around her ankles. (No matter how much she rocks the leather look, she still has to accept the fact that his legs are an awful lot longer than hers). Still, even if they don't fit, they're still pretty nice- warm, functional, and with the added appeal of making her feel like a biker chick. As she takes them off and tosses them into the washing machine, she wonders whether she should get a pair herself.

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A/N: Aha. Played it fairly straight this time, due to the fact that you were all expecting me to try and get out of it. I don't think it came off too well, myself, but I did, of course, have to limit the sexual fake-out-ness due to rating issues. (Yes, I know it's weird to be interacting so closely with a chunk of leather. But, it is a very tactile material- as I found out when researching this piece!) Also, that mako/Jenova-cell super washing machine from Leather Pants and Short Shorts makes a comeback, and rightly so. As a last point, [insert obligatory 'who-wears-the-trousers/pants-in-that-relationship' joke here].


	45. Shiver

A/N: This prompt was from Lethe Erisdottir. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Musical Disclaimer Number Another: Lost till you're found, swim till you drown, know that we all fall down...Just like my alibi in court.

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She swims through a cloud of silver euthanasia, her own thoughts spinning and whirling like a merry-go-round, except the horses have fangs and her father is in the saddle, beating her down, down, down, so her knees ache and her eyelids sink and all she wants to do is _collapse_. But it's her dear old dad, hair like raven's eyes, barking and howling at her with all his authority. And she never listens to her dear old dad.

So she swims on, flailing and thrashing against nothing and everything, soaring upwards, like a cork out of a bottle, like a hawk in flight, like that dusty old rocket Cid's always banging on about, always ready to drop back down, always losing momentum despite herself. Maybe she's screaming, maybe she isn't, but her ears aren't working anyway, all the sounds are blurring together, like they're echoing backwards and forwards around the Da-Choa caves, passing through the fire so they're burning hot in her ears.

And all of a sudden, it shatters. Her cloud evaporates, shrivels, contracts with cruel speed. She can almost hear the pop, the little 'oh' that her world makes when it realises she's still a part of it. She tosses her head forward and gasps, takes in the sweet air that's full of blood and steel and magic.

"Thought we lost you," Cloud says, looking down at her like a giant. He doesn't look sad, even though his hair is streaked with dirt and his clothes are covered in red, red, red. He looks like Cloud always looks since he lost Aerith- terrified, guilty, grim. But never sad.

Something cracks like thunder, and she moves her head to look. It feels loose, like it might pop off if she's not careful, and Cloud throws her a worried glance. But it's not him she's interested in- it's Vincent.

He whirls, twirls, like a dancer. His wrist jumps and the gun cracks, and his hand has no sooner fallen than the gun cracks again. The beast catches a bullet with its face and crumples to the floor. The other Shred moves in, bristling, but Vincent's been fighting this battle single handed since they got the drop on her and Cloud stopped to administer first aid, and he's not about to lose now. He twirls again, black hair twisting and curving like silken whips, and for just a fraction of a second his face looks towards her. His lips curve into a broken smile.

Bang. That's when it hits her, the reason everyone looks at him differently, the reason he stays alone. Vincent Valentine is a monster. Not a monster like the Shred he's tearing apart, not a monster like the ones inside him, not a monster of cruelty like Rufus or Sephiroth, but something worse, something scarier. He's a monster of conscience, barely restrained and thrashing, held in check only by his own discipline. In all people, there's that dangerously thin line separating the nervousness from anticipation, the guilt from the pleasure, the tension from the snap. He's the master of that line, the embodiment, the alpha and maybe even the Omega. He's so close to release that she can feel his vibrations, disguised in that aura of stillness he wears like a cloak.

The final Shred falls into the snow. She suddenly realises how very cold she's feeling, and how heavy her head is. The snow is soft when she hits it, and her eyes close all by herself.

Cloud's voice floats in and out of her mind. "She's just...probably be delusional when she wakes up...Maybe infected..."

An eternity later, her eyelids flutter open reluctantly, like butterflies without wings. Cloud's looking down at her again, gloved hand on her forehead to check for a temperature.

"You worried us, Yuffie," he almost smiles, almost happily.

Vincent turns and looks at her, as silent and still as the water Aerith disappeared into. There's nothing in his eyes, nothing in his mouth, nothing in his soul that even hints at demons within. Could she have imagined it? Could she really have been delusional?

He bends down, hair tumbling like curtains, and produces a potion for her wounds. With a grudging, even guilty sense of relief, his mouth curls into a sliver of a smile.

She sees, and she shivers.

* * *

A/N: Exploring imagery again, hopefully to suit the prompter's tastes. I always wanted to explore that darker side of Vincent a little. And, it's a comparatively rare in-game piece to boot.


	46. Weapons Known As Skateboards

A/N: This is another one of those prompts from yours truly.

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Disclaimer: To prepare for the event of lawsuit, I have filled Square's head office with Semtex. (Dammit, now whoever makes Semtex will sue me, too.)

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"Damn brat. I'm still hip, I'll have ya know!"

"Yeah, right. The only thing 'hip' about you is the one you're gonna break, Ashtray!"

He sometimes wonders why Cid, to whom he attributes so much value as a mature drinking buddy, even bothers to protest his youthfulness. The Captain is now at the age where slippers contribute quite heavily to his wardrobe and his trusty cigarette has given way to a (rather refined) pipe-smoking habit. But, at a mere tittered joke at his advancing age, he is perfectly willing to strap himself to one of the most rudimentary vehicles ever invented and toss himself into a quarter pipe.

Yuffie, with her astonishing and irritating talent for doing anything even remotely dangerous, punctuates her skateboarding session with kick flips, cannonballs, methods and other skating paraphernalia, to the enjoyment of the amassing crowd. Cid punctuates his with no small degree of falling over. However, he makes up for this with bursts of speed that surpass those of even Yuffie: his presence as a pilot is not unknown.

Still, it is vaguely embarrassing to see a grown man try to fit himself onto a plank of wood. It was one of the reasons that he himself refused outright. (The other involved some compatibility issues between his footwear and the skateboard. Apparently, metal shoes are a no-no.) And he can't quite fathom why Cid would put himself through such a thing.

He sighs. Even with his excellent viewing position from atop the half-pipe, there are only so many tricks a beginner like Yuffie can manage, and only so many times Cid can fall over before it ceases to be funny. He takes an automatic step backwards as Yuffie rockets up the half pipe and soars into the air in front of his face, the draft she leaves in her wake carrying her trademark scent. She uses her 'big air' to pull a number of poses, all of which require an alarming (and strangely exciting) amount of flexibility.

"Hah. The air is my back yard, brat! Watch this."

Yuffie shoots back down into the ramp, somehow balancing herself out and rolling to a halt. She seems to glow with energy. She suddenly looks downwards, and he follows with his eyes; her knee is a mess of blood. It seems she hadn't noticed in the excitement. He locks his eyes on her knee, trying to appraise the depth of the cut; he hardly even notices when Cid whizzes up past his face. But his eyes seem to have a mind of their own, lingering at the knee before slowly, slowly shifting up towards those excellent thighs-

"Whoa! _Whoa!_"

He looks up just in time to see the look of terror on Cid's face as he hurtles down towards him. He hits like a meteor, with an almighty crash. Now Vincent has more legs to worry about, but they're Cid's and they're currently tangled like a bundle of wires with his own.

"Hey, gramps! Y'okay?" Yuffie asks, popping up from the edge with no effort.

Cid yanks himself free, stands up, and puffs out his chest. He earns a round of applause from the resident daredevils for his 'phat' crash.

"Hmph. And what about me?" Vincent asks, pulling himself to his feet. Yuffie throws him a grin.

"I just asked, didn't I? You're both old men, so far as I'm concerned," she giggles. He frowns.

"Old man? I'll have you know, Yuffie Kisaragi-" he begins, taking a step forwards. Something cracks, something very important, something that seems to be his entire hip bone. The pain is simply _horrendous_.

"Well, anyways. We got another thirty minutes before we have to go, so I'm going to practice my freestyle," she says, moving away.

He waits until her back is turned, and then presses his hand to his hip. And he thought _Cid_ was getting on in years...

* * *

A/N: Don't even ask me why I wanted to do that as a prompt, because I don't know. I'm a little sick, so I suspect my writing is full of suck.


	47. Double Take

A/N: This prompt was from Lethe Erisdottir (I actually got it at the same time as the last one, but it was time for one of my little thingies, so, yeah.)

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Disclaimer: Y'know, I should get paid for these witty disclaimers, if nothing else.

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He moves confidently, crossing the gap between them in huge loops and swoops. His footwork is fantastic, the stuff of dreams. A shiver goes down her spine as she watches him, the way he uses the space. She finds herself gliding towards him, the movement smooth and effortless. They collide with a strange kind of heat, the kind in bad romance novels, a split second of elegant passion. He sweeps up her hand and closes in on her mouth. They dance, weaving intricate, mystic patterns across the floor. Fireworks explode above her head.

He moves aggressively, crossing the gap between them with lethal speed. His footwork is flawless, the stuff of nightmares. She trembles just to watch him, his merciless onslaught. And suddenly, she's running towards him, the motion broken, reluctant. They collide in an inferno, the type in bad action movies, a flurry of desperation. He grabs her hand, but her kunai drives upwards, digging, tearing, scraping. He releases with a howl, half-demon and half-man. They dance, scrawling dark, bloodless symbols on the ground, the land that will be a grave. His gun flicks out, and everything explodes.

* * *

A/N: Well, the prompt called for me to write a scene, then write it again in a different way. To be honest, I've never done anything (that I remember) like this; it was an interesting idea, one that I'll probably look at again. I had problems with time constraints (someone linked me to TVTropes. Honestly, what in the name of seven hells were they thinking, designing such an addictive website?) and ended up slacking off, basically- I might look at this idea again, when better equipped for it. I am, sadly, still sick, and I am notoriously unreliable when sick. (I've made more typos in the last three days than I have in my entire life.)


	48. Short Stick

A/N: Well, I'm finally recovering from my little spell of illness- which is great, because, frankly, I hate everything I write when I'm ill. Honestly, I stomp on delicate themes like a rhino on morphine. (And, just to show how bad I am when ill, I actually couldn't remember what morphine was until seven o' clock this morning.) Anyway, this prompt goes out to Anzer'ke. (I have finally learned to spell that name without checking it- hurrah for me!)

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Disclaimer: Yay, yet another musical disclaimer! Don't speak- I know just what you're saying. So please explaining- don't tell me 'cause it hurts. (Honestly, can't you just let me _pretend _I own Final Fantasy?)

* * *

"Fetch."

Today is a very lazy day for Yuffie. She tosses the stick lazily, issues the command lazily, and drapes herself over the bench. Lazily.

"You seem to forget that I am not a dog."

It's a very lazy day for Red XIII, too. The temperature is thirty-six on the nose, and _his_ nose is in danger of being classified as a desert.

Yuffie lets it hang in the air for a moment. The heat truly is oppressive. It feels like every breath she takes is inhaled from a gym teacher's armpit. "Oh, go on. You know you want to."

"I can assure you that I don't."

Vincent walks over, and he is sweating like a metaphorical pig. (Because real pigs, he's told by the ice-cream vendor, don't sweat). Leather is not an optimal material for keeping cool. Nevertheless, it remains as much a part of his wardrobe as ice cream remains a part of Yuffie's daily calorie intake.

"Oh, Vince. I love you, you know that?" she says dramatically, accepting her chocolate sundae graciously. He groans. Yuffie, and her grandiose shows of false affection, are going to give the rest of the group the wrong idea.

"Hn," he replies. Long black hair also does nothing to reduce the temperature.

"I noticed there's none for me," Red says wryly.

"'Course not. It's chocolate. You can't give dogs chocolate," she grins, relishing the annoyed way in which Red's tail flicks.

"I just wish we could have stayed behind. Why does Cloud need a team of three people just to purchase a villa?" Red asks, dropping his head back to the floor. Yuffie ignores him completely.

"Ah, don't be such a wuss." Yuffie says airily. "I could do with a tanning session, anyway."

"Hm. I suppose you can say that, seeing as you lack a permanent fur coat." Red grumbles.

"Hey, Vince," Yuffie says after a minute. He grimaces. He can almost see the mischievous glint in her eyes, even though she's wearing those ridiculous fifty-gil sunglasses. "As a reward for bringing me some ice cream, you can watch when I change into my thong."

A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, and Red XIII looks at him with an almost palpable curiosity. Something tells him that Nanaki has got the wrong end of a very short stick.

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A/N: I can't believe I actually paid for that villa after Mideel. I could have bought more Crystal Crosses for Throw-spam if I didn't. Another uncommon in-game piece. (Just as a side-note, you have _no idea_ how tempting it was to just fill this chapter with sex jokes. Honestly, that prompt is basically a sex joke anyways.)


	49. One Missed Call

A/N: Remember, remember, the fifth of November...Happy Bonfire Night, everybody! This prompt was from kaito142, with a title from yours truly.

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Disclaimer: A puppy isn't just for Christmas. And a lawyer isn't just for target practice.

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There are times when one prefers not to get a call. In a busy meeting, for example. Or when riding any form of public transportation system. Or, worse yet, when relieving oneself. The advantages of having a mobile phone generally, however, offset this.

The floorboards thud, as if to herald an approaching giant. As he navigates the writhing throng of office workers to retrieve a drink, he has to be careful not to scratch the laminated wood with his metal shoes. A lonely strobe light pulses colour at him, blues and reds and yellows, like the dregs of magic floating after the cast.

He detests office parties.

He accepts that most people do not consider his kind of music 'fun'. (It would be somewhat hard to draft in a violin and woodwind quintet, armed with flutes and Stradivariuses, anyway). And he accepts that some degree of dancing must be done at these events, despite preferring the foxtrot to the drunken stumble employed by his colleagues. But the one thing he cannot accept is the directive from on-high; Reeve's edict that, in the name of relationship building between workers, attendance to the office party is mandatory.

He knocks back another glass of punch. It's as weak as a newboard kitten, and he's a long way from being drunk enough to enjoy the atmosphere- unlike many of his colleagues. His stomach almost turns as he sees Tom and Jenny sequestered in one of the darker corners, Jenny seeming to suck in Tom's face like a black hole. He doesn't doubt that their rapturous exchange will continue later, whether the location is at Jenny's flat, or merely down the hall in the supply cupboard. The loose morals and the burgeoning sexuality sickens him.

It isn't very difficult for him to slip out unnoticed. Meaning, he thinks, that it would not be very difficult to assume a convenient position and hose the room with machine-gun fire. They're the WRO, for goodness' sake, and there they were, dropping their guard for a little music and a lick of alcohol. He sighs heavily, leaning against the wall like a stick against a rickety fence. The air is clean, but it chills the drops of sweat that have formed on his forehead.

His pocket vibrates, and he curses, reaching for the phone. One missed call, from Yuffie. She, conveniently, picked today to fall ill, leaving him to 'enjoy' the festivities alone. He suspects she's making excuses, but perhaps not. She wouldn't miss a chance to spike the punch. He dials in her phone number, switching the phone to speaker mode- the music is still loud in the night air. As the call connects, the door bursts open, leaving Tom and Jenny to stagger into his idyll. Ignoring them, he bids her an impotent hello.

"_Hey, Vince. How are you? Enjoying the party?" _Yuffie's voice crackles.

Tom stumbles and lurches towards Vincent as drunks will. He tries to step aside, but Tom's as unpredictable as Barret when he's on a bender.

"_Huh? Vince?"_

Distracted by the phone, Vincent misses a step in the drunken tango, and Tom collides with him like swinging meat on a butcher's hook, knocking both of them to the ground. Jenny sets up the hysterical cackle of the inebriated.

"_Hey, what? Is that another woman on the phone, Vince? What the hell's going on?"_

Vincent grunts, trying desperately to untangle Tom's legs from his. Tom's not making it easy. The drunkard flops forward, pinning him to the ground with his dead weight. The stench of alcohol wrinkles his nose.

"Oh, baby. You got some nice hair, there," Tom slurs, with heart-stopping loudness.

A moment passes. Two.

"_Oh. My. Gawd. You are SO not cheating on me with a GUY. I swear, Vince, if you are, I will carve up your ass and display it outside the house. I'm not even kidding."_

His first feeling is panic. His second is anger. With all the vengeance of a man scorned, he jerks his knee upwards into bits of Tom that he wouldn't touch with any other part of his body. He watches with satisfaction as he sees the man reel- until he hears the groan. The loud, long, low groan, that sounds as bad as it could possibly sound when there are two full grown men lying on top of each other. Tom's weight suddenly grows that much more oppressive.

"_Oh, hell. You did. You fricking did. That's it, Vince. I'm going out tonight, sick or not, and I'm keeping a packet of condoms in my shorts. I'll drop you a call when I'm getting laid by a **real** man, shall I? Two can play at this game, buster,"_ the ninja snarls. The phone disconnects with an ominous beep.

With a sudden surge of strength, he tosses Tom off him, and rushes past Jenny without a backwards glance. First, he needs to find Yuffie and explain. Then, he's going home. And coming back with his machine gun.

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A/N: All the guys out there, say it with me: ouch. Just..._ouch. _


	50. Bureaucracy

A/N: To you, ladies and gentlemen, and our rooftop viewers, welcome- to the fiftieth published chapter of Pyjamas! Ready to celebrate?

Pity, because whilst it's the fiftieth listed chapter, that includes the special Of Pyjamas chapter from earlier. The real celebration (and the next special, Ironic Harmonies), comes next chapter.

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Disclaimer: Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Give a lawyer a fish, and he'll sue you for deformation of character. (Give _me_ a fish, and I'll slap you around the face with it. Who gives people fish, anyway?)

* * *

Normally, she doesn't fill in forms. It's stupid, boring, and wastes valuable time during which she could be ninjaing cinnamon swirls from the cafeteria. Forms are something for boring old men with fuzzy chins like Reeve's.

However, it _has_ gotten to the point where her paperwork stack is the main support beam for the rest of the building. And Reeve's not happy, because he could be using that space for a water cooler, or a photocopier, or hell, who knows, maybe a _real_ support beam to replace all the ones Deepground blew up. (It gets annoying when the building tilts on gusty days. They had to get rid of all the office chairs with wheels on them, and they were the only ones that spun, too.)

It doesn't help that, to fill in one form, she has to cross reference three that she should have filled in before. Which means climbing the tower of paper, and removing the necessary documents without toppling it. (It's a chore, but hey, she's getting a lot better at Jenga.) And it doesn't help that Vincent _freaking_ Valentine is sitting around spectator.

"At your current rate, Yuffie, it could take three days before all the paperwork is done," he says ominously, sipping obnoxiously weak coffee from a polystyrene cup.

"Not helping, Vinny," she seethes, crossing, dotting, and signing like a mad woman.

"Actually, I was trying to cheer you up," he says, stalking over. "You see, I wasn't counting the new paperwork that's coming in whilst you're still dealing with the old ones."

"Shut up, will ya?"

He mimes thinking for a moment. She knows he's miming, because he doesn't _need_ to stroke his chin when he thinks. There's very rarely chance to do that in a gunfight.

"I could help, of course...For a nominal fee."

She groans. "Gawd, Vince. How many this time?"

"Only two, I should think," he smirks.

"Oh, fine. What _is_ your weird fetish with candlelit dinners, anyway?" she grumbles, tossing another few papers onto her pitiful outbox stack.

"I just find it strange that I have to bribe you to attend them," he replies, in a strange tone. Miffed is the word for it, she decides. Miffed, just effeminate enough for how much he's annoying her.

"So, what're you waiting for? You said you'd help, so help. Grab a pen and get stuck in."

With a lazily triumphant gesture, he tosses her a piece of materia. "I should think that the majority of these forms are nothing a good dose of Fire wouldn't take care of."

"Huh? What the hell got into you? You've usually got a rod in your ass about rules and stuff," she asks suspiciously, narrowing her eyebrows for effect.

He shrugs. "Don't be foolish, Yuffie. Nobody likes paperwork."

He makes to leave, but stops halfway, framing himself in the door.

"Tuesday, then, at Antonio's. Oh, and," he says, throwing her a backwards glance, "Don't forget to do the fire insurance forms when you're done."

He walks away, and a moment passes. She looks at the materia in her hand. She should probably test it out, make sure her aim's still good.

Vinnie's cloak looks like a good target.

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A/N: I felt like doing a complete joke segment. Obviously, I've ignored the laws of physics governing architecture for this chapter. I was gonna do something romantic (I will soon, I promise), but hey ho.

Because I forgot to put it at the start, this prompt is yet another idea from Azer'ke. Someone, give that fan a fish.


	51. Bad Luck III

A/N: Well, welcome to the fiftieth prompt in Of Pyjamas And Ironic Harmonies! I'll elaborate a little after the chapter, but for now, enjoy!

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Disclaimer: The average lifespan of a human in the UK and the U.S.A is approximately two and a half million seconds. How much of that are you prepared to waste suing my ass?

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Beautiful. That was the first though to enter his mind. A thousand toothless metaphors flowered in his brain and wilted. Eve, Aphrodite, Helen of Troy; every classic analogue of desire shot through his mind and fell, discarded, like bullet casings from a machine-gun.

He hated every minute of it.

Lucrecia, her name was. The sound always lingered in the air, smoky and dissolute, like it was unfinished. Hair, eyes, legs. They all appealed to him in ways he hadn't even known existed, hadn't even considered.

She seemed to hate him too.

The first evening was strained. There was something about her, some oddity of behaviour or character, that made it hard for him to work. It always felt as if she were on edge, ready to fight or flee, more a cornered animal than the cold, calculating scientist he'd envisioned.

"Your name...Valentine, was it?" she asked, breaking the silence. He nodded, and the quiet soon repaired the damage. She turned away, gaze drifting dreamily through the window.

It wasn't like he didn't have experience with women. How many had he seduced in search of information? No one could let secrets slip like a barmaid post-coitus. He saw flashes of his mechanical embraces, jerky like old film reel, divorced from the reality of the sweat and the pressure and the constant, constant coldness. But for some reason, those skills (if they _could_ be called skills, and weren't the collective benefit of Shinra's money and Shinra's suit) deserted him in her presence.

He busied his hands with his gun, stripping away the components with robotic efficiency, cleaning, twisting, examining. As soon as he was done, he started again, timing himself, getting it down to seconds and microseconds- anything to feel like he was capable, like this woman hadn't stripped him toothless at a glance.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Valentine. My mind was elsewhere," she said, her voice soft near his ear.

"Vincent," he replied. "Call me Vincent."

"Of course. I'm sorry," she said, leaving the question of 'why' unanswered and walking away.

Something was disquieting about the way she said his name. It was familiar on her tongue, as if she'd said it many times before. It came out like a lament, a sigh. Strange.

The next day, she came down from the inn with bloodshot eyes and a face with the tell-tale blanche of computer exposure. Dutifully, he said nothing, but noted the change. He wondered, later, how she could have possibly captured his attention so quickly, and so completely.

In time, the barriers between them began to lower. They never completely disappeared, but he was fool enough to ignore them, missing signs he should have seen. The way she always lowered her eyes when he tried to catch them. The way she stared at his hair when she thought he wasn't looking, and sighed, as if looking back on a fond memory. And the way that she seemed to try to get closer and hold him at arm's length at the same time.

Somehow, the way he thought (the very _fibre_ of his being) began to wind away like the threads in a cheap suit. The man, the monster, the Turk- all of him was trying to get closer to her, to analyse, to understand. But his mind just wouldn't do it. It didn't have the strength. So, for the first time in years, he did something dangerous. He consulted his heart.

-_Pyjamas_-

There, his memories faded. What was left were mere moments, snapshots in time. His confession, her reaction, the awkwardness between them. Hojo's arrival. His memories became more phantasm than fact, dropping away into what he thought might have happened. Flashes passed through his mind again, of bare skin on bare skin, desperate emptiness, an all consuming warmth. He shook them away. It might have happened, it might not. It didn't matter any more.

"Vince? You okay?"

She touched his arm, still warm and soft and honey-throated in the afterglow. Goosebumps seemed to spread like fire from her touch. Before he could move to stop her, she was sitting up in the bed, shadows falling gracefully across her legs, hiding nothing.

"Stop thinking so much," she said. Her eyes were still dewy and glazed.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like. To be full."

She snaked her hand across his chest, holding it under his heartbeat- on the scar, where he'd had his past ripped out, from the time she'd saved his life.

"Mine," she murmured. "I'm stealing it. And I don't care who had it before."

"Do I not get a say in this, Yuffie?" Now that he thought about it, his throat was full of honey, too.

"Nope. Tough luck for you, huh?"

"For me? Not particularly."

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A/N: Hoorah! A romantic little epilogue for the Bad Luck series. Now, for my spiel. For the last fifty chapters, this collection has had at least _some _content (whether that be filler that was later taken down, or failed attempts) posted every two days. If I've ever missed one, I've conveniently forgotten it. Just like the twenty-fifth landmark, next update will be a special, off schedule chapter, so to whoever had prompt number fifty-one (TornAngelWings, as I remember it), yours will be the update after that.

Thanks, as always, to everyone who reads, massive thanks to everyone who reviews and has reviewed, and I extend my very utmost gratitude to all the people who've submitted prompts. Because it's been based on your requests, you can consider a good portion of the credit for this collection yours. 2

As to where this fic is going in the future? Well, I have around 75 prompts scheduled (a few less, because I'm leaving room in between a triple prompt), so I shan't be ending it any time soon. I'd actually quite like to get to 100 chapters, partially to show all those people who abandon their 100 theme challenges how I do things, and partially because it's a very nice number. But, for the moment, thanks to everyone for helping me to get this far.


	52. Similarities

A/N: This isn't actually the special chapter, I'm afraid. I am, unfortunately, sick again, and tired to boot. I tried to write a special, but it wasn't very special; until I've managed to get it down, this is just filler. Please feel completely free to ignore it; I'll take it down when the actual special is decent enough that I'm not ashamed of it.

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Disclaimer: There are some universal rules. Everyone loves Raymond, everyone hates Chris, you will always get more of the crisps you _don't_ like in a multi-pack, and I don't own Final Fantasy.

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It's an oddment that, despite their vast catalogue of differences, it is their similarities that draw them together. Like, for example, the way that they will both fight to the death for the television remote. Or how they both wake up, mortified and with a headache, the morning after her birthday. Things like that.

Of course, there _are_ many, many differences between them. Despite having a metal hand, he still manages to stick his little finger out when drinking tea. She has a far higher tendency to fall into petty larceny when bored. And _he's_ certainly not the one who snuck into Reeve's office when he was having a nap and sticky-taped him to his chair.

Overall, though, it's the things they share that make them solid, make them whole. The one similarity that draws them closer than anything else? On that bright, sunny morning, so many years ago, they both said 'I do'.

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A/N: Blah. Please excuse the suck. Kinda possibly set when Yuffie's old. I think. Like I said, might wanna ignore this.


	53. Ironic Harmonies

A/N: I've decided that last chapter can stay. At least it has some decent mental imagery, and I guess it's not so bad to have a little pointless fluff floating around.

However, it's time for the real special!

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Disclaimer: What would Brian Boitano do? Cover his ass, he's gonna get sued.

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At times, he feels unholy, a demon only fit for playing the organ in a haunted castle. In the Nibelheim mansion lies his dark piano, freshly repaired with its missing key.

With Chaos exorcised, and Lucrecia's memory laid to fitful sleep, he can bear to stand in in that great manse once more. At first, it was a labour of duty. He had expelled Deepground from this place, the place where so much of Avalanche's history was made, and he had to protect it from further invasion.

Now, though, the mansion is just a little more homely. He's installed a few comforts in it, to make it more suitable for habitation; now, even in the underground laboratory where he was torn apart, he is never more than a few metres away from the comfortable, mechanical hum of a heater. In the guest rooms, pastel colours mask the faded horrors. The lights hum, dispelling the silent house's spell.

The piano is his confidante, watching every change he wreaks with nothing more than a tinkle of keys. Every night, the tendons of his good hand arch over the keys, striking, stroking, playing. Sometimes, the music comes reluctantly, and at others, it flows and pools in silver serenades in the house's darkest corners.

On his many prowls through the basement, he found, nestled between scientific journals and logs of abominable research, a songbook. Clothed in dust and adorned by cobwebs, it soon found itself perched on top of the piano. Recently, he's been learning one of the many songs within its pages.

It begins ominous, shifting through the notes low and dangerous. Then, a frenzy of vicious activity, rhythmic to the point of being mechanical, culminating in a jangle clatter of keys at the high end. Then, an absolute descent into near silence. The strings don't vibrate, they quiver, always ready to sound but never quite getting there. Then, another spike of frenzied sound.

He can almost play it flawlessly now. It's a challenging piece, requiring every single ounce of dexterity he has. Even when he gets it right, it always seems that he's getting it wrong.

Occasionally, his friends visit him, and hear him play. They have differing opinions on the melody. Tifa thinks it a little tragic, and scolds him a little for locking himself away to play it. Cid and Barret don't have the patience to listen. Cloud nods appreciatively, before leaving abruptly; the violence of the piece occasionally triggers his morose nature. But Red looks at him with eyes full not of appreciation for the music, but of pity.

Of course, he doesn't know if he's playing it properly. Because, as fate would have it, the very first of his friends to drop round was Yuffie Kisaragi. And his songbook went 'missing' directly afterwards.

He reminds himself of the tune by humming it. His voice is creaky, more full of rust than honey. But he can pick out the notes, and he enjoys the way it seems warmer in his voice than when beat out of the strings of the piano.

He wakes in the guest room, after a long night at the mercy of the keys. His fingers ache, and his ears are ringing. But more importantly, he can smell burning. With flowing speed, he leaps out of the bed, and hastens to find the source.

He finds Yuffie in his 'kitchen'. He never bothered to replace the old fashioned stove, partially because it has character and partially because he isn't exactly _made_ of gil. She's having a great deal of trouble with it, and he spots what looks like the charred husk of an egg welded to the top.

"What exactly are you doing here, Yuffie?"

She takes her eyes off the stove, and immediately it begins to smoke. "Oh, I was bringin' your songbook back. Gawd, never knew piano lessons were so boring. Then I remembered I borrow without permission again, so I was gonna make it up to you with breakfast."

"So. You come here to give me back the songbook you stole, and ended up ruining my only functioning kitchen appliance." he says archly, crossing to the stove and pushing her out of the way. He may be able to salvage the eggs, if not the cooker.

As she waits (pulling up two plates, with an automatic assumption that she deserves some of the spoils), she hums. A few bars here, a few bars there. Like a sparrow or some other songbird, her voice isn't the prettiest, but it does have a nice energy to it. In contrast to his piece, hers is gentler and slower, hovering around the high notes and teasing the lower ones. A dive, then an elegant swoop back up to the top. Next, a burst of chirpy staccato. Then, the melody settles back into something slower, more peaceful, and even cheerful. But the notes seem to echo his, in their own way; refracted, perhaps, by her voice.

It is then, as he stands in his kitchen, cooking eggs for his least favourite housebreaker, that he realises that they are two halves of the same song.

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A/N: A play on the soulmate idea. This is pretty much made to be interpreted. I owe inspiration for this to a short story I read a while back. Can't remember what it's called for the life of me.


	54. Marching Band

A/N: So, back to business as usual. This prompt was from TornAngelWings. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: 'Being awesome' is not a valid reason for breaking copyright laws.

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For what seems like the billionth time, he eases himself into the minuscule gap between Cid and Barret. Pomp, circumstance and ridiculous amounts of ticker tape are in the air, because it's yet another day dedicated to the celebration of AVALANCHE's role in saving the planet. Sometimes, privately and with a guilty smile, he wishes he hadn't- peace and quiet was far easier to find with doomsday nigh.

Junon's famous marching band leads the way, playing in good form this time. Usually, they're a little out of practice. The violinists are especially cheerful; the conductor keeps eyeing them and then Cloud, as if implying that his gaze would be better at attracting the mercenary's attention than the spirited music.

Still, he understands the need for the ritual, so, even though he's forced into close proximity with Cid's cigarette-infused jacket and Barret's ample supply of armpit hair, he can't begrudge them. It isn't _just_ about celebrating AVALANCHE; it's also about the paraders showing their skill and appreciation. It gives them a sense of self-importance.

Although he never actually thought self-importance was quite so vital to the running of countries, Reeve has recently been giving lectures at the WRO office that have changed his mind.

"All workers must be made to feel they're important, even if they aren't," he'd winked to Vincent, voiced hushed. Actually, he'd quite admired the sentiment; a _little_ utilitarianism was no bad thing in a leader.

Still, he could find no better evidence that self importance made people happy than Yuffie Kisaragi, a case in point. A child who, by stealing their materia at Wutai, could have completely derailed the planet's rescue, and who regularly impressed her _self_ importance over Reeve's _real_ importance by snatching his trousers and running them up the flagpole.

(Although, to be honest, she does this to anyone foolish enough to let her. Bringing a spare pair, and regulating one's underwear choices to the least embarrassing possible on workdays, is never a bad move.)

Strange, though, that the importance she attributes to herself seems to keep her constantly in his thoughts. If he didn't know the ninja to be impulsive, he could almost believe there was a strategy there. After all, after the Wutai incident, and indeed _any_ incident in which something valuable was stolen, no one was left who doubted Yuffie's 'unique' brand of genius.

He ponders the thought, until Cloud shifts uneasily three chairs down. A dot, in bright green, rushes into the midst of the violinists.

"Dammit. Why's the brat have to ruin it? I was enjoyin' having people tell me how good I was", Cid grumbles.

The dot makes a few complicated hand gestures to the violinists, and all of a sudden the entire marching band stops. With gravity and care approaching the levels of an undertaker, the violinists solemnly heft their violins in one hand and twirl them above their heads. Cloud coughs, and realises where he's seen such a thing before. The cough becomes a laugh, and that sets everybody off.

A few minutes later, Yuffie strolls casually back to her seat, her green cloak still rolled under one arm, and a cat's grin emblazoned on her face.

"How awesome am I to set that up? Betcha those guys get to sign some autographs tonight."

He smiles a secret smile. Yuffie (and her violinists) may think the world of themselves. But because of that, someone else does too.

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A/N: Possibly pre-relationship fluff. Phew.


	55. Little Genius

A/N: Another curveball from Anzer'ke. I'm throwing a curveball back.

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Disclaimer: Y'know what? I'm not as afraid of lawyers as I am of raptors. I'll take my chances.

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Candles? Check.

Adorable red-and-white striped tablecloth? Absolutely.

Huge plate of spaghetti and meatballs? Present and accounted for.

He finds himself reaching for a spark, a little bit of genius to liven up proceedings. Eventually, he decides on some romantic music. Opera. He pays his confederate, and walks away.

He's aware that it's a low blow to ruin the first real date they've had in ages. But she'll probably appreciate the joke.

Nevertheless, when Yuffie walks in to find Red doing spaghetti kisses with her expensive limited edition plush toy, she's going to _regret_ making him watch Lady And The Tramp.

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A/N: Whatever you thought you were getting, this wasn't it. (Unless my wordcount is wrong, it's a drabble, too. Well, the prompt did contain the word 'little'...)

I blame xkcd.


	56. Unharmonious

A/N: Welcome, folks, to what could possibly be the worst chapter I post in this collection. You see, I'm sick. Again. Except, this is the worst I've been sick during this collection. Put it this way: I'm wearing a coat indoors because, even with the three other layers I'm wearing and the heating on max, I still shiver uncontrollably. I'm not listening to music, because my headache is bad enough already. I can't walk properly because my balance went on a day trip to hell. So, yeah.

However, I promised myself to keep on my schedule, so here we go. This prompt goes to HawkfrostsAvenger, and sorry for the cop-out format.

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Disclaimer: All's fair in love and war, but not in court. Weird.**

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**I. Unharmonious**

There's no such thing as a halcyon day in their household. On the plus side, it's never boring. And he's gotten a lot better at rope escape.

**II. Bite**

Because knives, shuriken and magic just aren't enough to make him do _that_ shudder.

**III. Shower**

He takes his showers steaming hot and purging, because sometimes it's the only way he can feel anymore.

She takes hers any way except alone.

**IV. Mortality**

For him, it's a crushing blow. No matter what happens, she'll eventually blow away like dust on the winds of time. She says she doesn't mind, because at least _she _won't have to spend her life widowing him. He wonders whether that's all of the truth.

**V. Angel**

He always believed in demons, even when he was a child. He never believed in angels until after she was gone.

**VI. Dilapidation**

He forgets to shave when she's gone. The dishes remain unwashed, the house unclean. He takes his gun and wanders in the wasteland, seeking the tang of battle on his tongue. That way he still feels alive.

**VII. Fantasy**

Sometimes, she fears it's all a dream, that he'll fade away like a bloodstained phantom. She crushes the cold metal Relief into her hands, and prays the spiked pain in the heel of her hand mean she's awake.

**VIII. Brat**

She's the baby of the group. Everyone sees that young, lithe body and wants to protect her, like she's the mouthy younger sister nobody ever had. Little do they know that under dimmed lights and the moon's shine, she's _all _woman.

**IX. Gambling**

Her favourite materia? The coin toss. Her favourite sport? Snowboarding. Her favourite passtime? Trying to annoy Barret until he gets out his gun. Sometimes, he despairs of her adrenaline charged lifestyle. But on the plus side, it means she'll always need him to bail her out.

**X. Unknown**

He wonders what his life would have become if they'd never found him in that coffin, if he'd remained captive in his nightmares for the rest of time. But when she rests, warm, supple and glowing in his arms, he finds he doesn't care.

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A/N: Hopefully this wasn't _too _awful. I don't like the whole list format, but to be honest, I think I'd have failed at anything more sophisticated.


	57. Popsicle Toes

A/N: If you're wondering why your messages, reviews and stuff haven't been answered yet, I have a very simple answer: At the time of the last update, I was quite ill.

I got worse.

This prompt was from Lethe Erisdottir. It's a quirky one that I was quite looking forwards too, and I'm hesitant to write it when ill. But I'd feel bad about doing yet _another_ chapter of filler so soon. If it's not good, I'll redo it when I've recovered.

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Disclaimer of music: Prove yourself. You are the move you make. Take your chances, win or lose her. (Shame this doesn't _quite_ work the same way in court.)

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Winter had drawn a steel-grey shroud over Wutai, showing only the tiny rips in the canvas that were the stars. The river running through the village tried half-heartedly to form ice, but never quite got there; instead, it settled for the featureless sludge of snow fallen in the water. The Da-Choa mountain seemed to amplify rather than break the winds, bouncing back each gust after giving it a metaphorical spit, polish and howl.

She cursed her body daily in winter. Even though she'd trekked across _freaking Great Glacier_, her skin seemed to have forgotten how to deal with the biting sub-zero temperatures. And she'd been in _short shorts_ when she climbed that frickin' oversized snowcone, too.

She had half a mind to sneak into the Da-Chao mountains and warm herself on the flames in the caves. Although, her other half a mind said that she didn't stand much chance against the monsters when she was too busy quivering and sneezing.

Of course, it was made worse by the fact that the rest of the gang were dropping round for celebrations and cheap sake. If it'd been Cloud's turn to host the party, she'd have made some pretty serious threats to his chance of becoming a dad unless he held it at his Costa Del Sol villa.

And, of course, two of the party had arrived early.

Typically, the first she knew about it was finding Vincent and Red in her front room, playing poker on her tatami mat.

"I believe I've won," Red huffed, not even shivering. Damn fur coat.

"Hey, dog-breath! Don't move my cards with your _mouth_!" she hissed immediately.

It was, to say the least, inconvenient that they'd shown up two days early. That meant she had to give them beds for two days. And she didn't particularly feel like having Sir Creepalot and Fluffy crashing in her house.

"Yuffie? You're shivering," Vincent told her in a deadpan voice.

"Well, _duh._ I think I should know," she retorted. "And I've gotta go outside to find accommodations for you two clowns. I got over having two guys sleeping in the same room as me about the time when we stopped traipsing around the freaking _world_."

After she'd stomped out of the house, defied her temptation to push the pub landlord into the river, marched up to her crusty old man and pulled his beard hair until he agreed to stump up the goddamn beds, she stomped straight back. She found her two unwanted guests building a snowman outside- or, rather, Vincent doing to building and Red telling him exactly what it should look like. And although there's nothing quite so heart-warming as a snowman with a mohawk and whiskers, she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.

"Yuffie. Care to join us?" the gunslinger asked, without a single chill-induced shiver in his voice.

She took a deep breath, and smiled sweetly. She took quick, bounding steps towards them (she always had liked snowmen after all), and circled the sculpture. Red shook his fur a little, and Vincent stood tall on one side, apparently admiring the work.

Then, with the greatest of prejudice, she threw her fist straight through its head and into Vincent's jaw.

Unfortunately, she didn't hear the soft flump of Vincent landing in the snow like she was hoping. Instead, she felt the crack as her frigid digits crumpled harmlessly against his face.

There was a short interlude where both man and dog-lion _thing_ watched her hop up and down, cursing everything from cream soda to electric lightbulbs.

"It seems we've caused her some trouble by turning up early," Red rumbled. With all the irresistible charm of a puppy, he carefully licked her fingers with his huge, rasping tongue.

"Hn. I should think very few people receive such treatment from Nanaki. An honour, I should think," Vincent shrugged.

She dug her fingers into the front of his cloak and pulled his face down to hers, snarling all the while.

"Don't feel so smug, asshole," she growled. "You get the toes."

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A/N: A wintery one, because damn is it cold...I'll answer messages/etc. when I'm better. I am still reading them, though- thanks for everyone's support!


	58. The World As We Know It

A/N: Here's another one of my own little doohickeys. I'm still not completely better, but I'm not as rat-bitten as before.

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Disclaimer: In Soviet Russia, bear is eaten by lawyer.

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He likes boxes. They're very real, very solid. Very predictable. They don't have a habit of making sudden moves, and even when they do, it generally only takes one bullet to find and eliminate the cause of the rebelliousness.

Most people have the false impression that he doesn't like boxes, because he spent so much time in a coffin. They fail to realise, of course, that it was his own nightmares that were the torture. The coffin itself was actually somewhat comfortable, and as peaceful a bed as any he's found since. Really, all it meant was that, for those long years, a box was his entire world.

And now, he has to deal with a round one.

Of course, Yuffie, as the great expert on everything irrelevant and therefore connected with everyday life, tries her best to 'make him fit for society'. (Although, quite how she can make that claim whilst possessing such kleptomaniacal qualities is beyond him.)

However, it hasn't been easy. She has despaired of explaining the appeal of the hot-dog to him. The importance of the electrically operated hair straighteners has likewise passed him by. And the value of 'normal people clothes' still lies undiscovered.

However, they muddle through. Because somewhere, between his dark, two dimensional caricature of modern life and her overly enthusiastic joyride through each day, lies the world as they would like to know it.

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A/N: Short again, yes. I'm conserving my strength.


	59. Bloodsucker

A/N: Well, I'm still inching ever closer to a full recovery. This prompt was from kitty materia princess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Square owns Final Fantasy. (There is a joke hidden in this disclaimer. But how long are you prepared to look for it?)

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It is, all things considered, a global craze: the vampire business. Suddenly, the world's teenage girls and their thirty year old mothers have gotten an obsession for anything with fangs, red eyes and enough tragic sin to sink a frigate.

Which puts him right in the firing line.

Before, he had grateful old-age pensioners shaking his hand and mumbling about what a nice chap he was for turning into Chaos and hurling himself down Omega's throat. Now, he has drooling teenage girls making a mad dash for his cape-tails, and he's not particularly pleased about it.

After all, he's not a vampire.

The media's in on it, too. Goodness knows, he enjoys a glass of blood red wine once in a while, but it's slightly galling to see it splashed all over the front page next day, complete with captions wondering how many virgins he attacked to get it. (The only virgins he could _possibly_ have attacked were men and in an army of some kind.)

And it certainly doesn't help that Yuffie has not quite escaped the media blitz. She's quite pleased with all the attention he's getting.

"And why _shouldn't_ I get to show off my toy?" she grinned when he asked why.

But, he hadn't thought she'd get in on the vampire thing, too. He walks in to find her on her beanbag, nose first in a book with a jet black cover, some fake reading glasses perched comically on her head. After a few moments of watching her eyes dart backwards and forwards under the redundant reading glasses, he goes to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

"Vinny? Be straight with me," she calls, padding after him.

"No, Yuffie. I'm not a vampire," he sighs, drinking the milk. "I'm just me."

"No. I was thinking maybe _I'm _a vampire," she giggles. "After all, how many times have I bitten you?"

"Out of spite or out of love?"

"Oh-har-har."

It seems to him a routine exchange. Joke, retort, sarcastic deflection. He's really getting better at 'small talk' when Yuffie's concerned.

"Anyway, _you_ couldn't be a vampire. Vampires _sparkle_. Like fairies."

He looks at the newspaper, which decries him as a creature of the night. He looks at Yuffie, who is reaching absently for a pot of glitter. And he looks at her book. Somehow, someway, some_one_ is going to die.

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A/N: This 'idea' (which I didn't handle too well) came from an idea I had for a webcomic way back. Basically, Cloud was to casually hand Vincent a copy of Twilight and walk away. Several frames later, Vincent appears behind Cloud and shoots him in the head. After Tifa throws him a phoenix down, Cloud maintains that it was worth it to make the joke.

By the way, this is my 'joke' vampire chapter. I will eventually do a chapter with uber-bitchin' supervamp Vince. Expect action scenes, baby.


	60. A Morning With Yuffie Kisaragi

A/N: This prompt is from Aagwa. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: The joke in the last disclaimer was that there was no joke in the last disclaimer. There isn't one in this disclaimer either. _Honest_.

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It was one of the almost nauseating stream of public appearances that filled up all her time and made her calender look like a collection of scribbles. Avalanche's fame was not always a boon, and he and Yuffie were both feeling the ill effects.

"_Well, Jack, I've been well. If you're wondering where the cake in your fridge went, I could pass you a few clues..."_

Still, he drew the line at TV interviews. She didn't, which he felt incredibly thankful for. It gave him the moral high ground, somehow. He didn't know how he could stand her weekly visits if he didn't feel superior.

"_Well, sure. I've been to a few parades and things...I don't get chance to watch movies anymore, but I go to a lot of cafes."_

He turned the volume up a touch. Cafés, indeed. The last time they went to a café, at her insistence, a reporter caught them and started writing date angles for the scandal sheets. He'd been mortified. (Although, he had enjoyed the tea there, and had visited a few times by himself.)

"_Anyone in my life? Naw. All you guys out there still have a shot. Bring chocolate, though!"_

Still, he didn't see why anyone bothered watching these chat shows, as she called them. No meaningful information, no opinion subscribed to, no point. Only gossip. The only people he was at all prepared to gossip about were Cloud and Tifa, and then only because everyone kept asking him when they'd be hitched.

"_Vincent Valentine? What about him?"_

Oh, fantastic. And now he was getting dragged in. She knew how he felt about these things, and she was still sullying his good name by associating him with such a trite and worthless program.

"_Coffee? Oh, yeah. He'd get coffee. **Any**time."_

Yuffie turns inside the television and gives the camera a grin that shouldn't be shown before the watershed. Gently, he begins to beat his head against the door of the fridge.

He wants to turn her off, but he just doesn't know how.

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A/N: I'm now pretty much entirely better, so I'm going to try and finish answering my messages. Sorry for the delay, guys!


	61. Evil Laugh

A/N: I wonder what I'd do if I'd never started this collection? I'd probably be on time for just about everything else in my life. This prompt was from kaito142. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: For the past two disclaimers, I tried being clever. Normal service is being resumed. Time to get back to what I do best: the ritual abuse of lawyers.

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Fear the quiet ones.

Common wisdom, but right more often than not, or so he finds. The quiet ones, like himself and Cloud, always seem to be more deadly than the louder ones among them.

For example, whilst only a true fool would relish the prospect of meeting _him_ in a dark alley on the wrong side of town, all one could expect from Yuffie Kisaragi would be, perhaps, an egg. Delivered to the forehead, at great velocity. But whilst being hit by an egg is not the most pleasant of nightly occurrences, eggs are not bullets. And he only deals in bullets.

Likewise, Barret is now a highly prosperous businessman. Reasons for him to let loose with his gun arm are few and far between, and usually come at Christmastime. (Shooting down fireworks: not a conventional hobby, but for a man with a gun on his arm, a rather benign one).

Cloud, however, is rarely without a rather large sword on his person. And has a habit of using it to remedy everyday disagreements, especially if the offending party is stupid enough to have actually _started_ the altercation. Or made any remark about Tifa and the size of her backside. Either way.

However, the logic does not always hold true. By the same premise, Nanaki should be a homicidal maniac on the same level as Hojo or Sephiroth. And unless dear old Red XIII has been secretly engaging in tribal rituals that require him to consume human children, _nothing_ could put him on the same level as Sephiroth or Hojo.

All of this pales in comparison to the fact that Yuffie Kisaragi is hiding under the stairs, and he has no idea how to retrieve her.

"Make it stop!" she howls, as he tentatively reaches under to try and coax her out. He hears a number of vicious crunches, and, not for the first time, is glad he defaulted to using his metal arm.

"Yuffie, I did _nothing_," he grumbles, attempting to be the voice of reason and 'talk her down', as it were.

She shrieks from under the stairs. He presses a hand to his forehead, as if to cram the emerging headache back into the depths of his brain.

"You laugh like a _madman_, Vince! Honestly, evil villain, much? I thought you were going to reveal your plans for world domination!" she hisses.

"You're reading _far_ too much into this, Yuffie. It was just a particularly funny sports blooper," he tries. He can't hide the edge of annoyance in his voice. Yuffie can laugh like a maniac any time she pleases, but the moment he makes a chuckle that doesn't take her fancy, it's nuclear war and pestilence from under the stairs.

"Okay, that's even _worse!_ That guy about broke his neck, Vince, and you sit there and do your evil villain laugh over it? I don't _care_ if they had canned laughter in the background and you use that to navigate your way around the TV set. It was still _sick_ and _wrong_ and you're going _straight_ to hell!"

He sighs, and, in the best tradition of these things, gives up. He can't understand her, sometimes. But, as he eases himself back onto the sofa, he realises that, in her haste, Yuffie has left the popcorn completely unguarded. He doesn't know whether to feel guilty or not as he helps himself to a more-than-generous handful.

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A/N: Again, a more wintery, let's-all-hide-indoors-next-to-our-open-hearths kinda feel. (For all you people with open hearths, you have my enduring jealousy.) Personally, I feel justified in exploiting my evil laugh if I think it will get me stuff. That's what it's for, after all: celebrating ill-gotten gains.


	62. Poison

A/N: Well, it's been snowing where I am, so it truly feels like Christmas is upon me. Fantastic, considering the fact that said snow has put paid to the infrastructure of the country. The trains have been taken off strike on the premise that they no longer work. The road safety campaigners are whittering that everyone's driving so slowly that pedestrians can't hear them coming and are getting hit, which is a great boon to the country because most road safety campaigners are also hardcore environmentalist pedestrians. And, for no reason anyone can suitably explain to me, heavy snowfall means that more gates must be closed at my school, despite the fact that fewer people wish to pass through these gates because it's snowing outside and they therefore want to remain inside.

On a happier note, this prompt is for serenbach.

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Disclaimer: I was due in court today, but Squeenix were sued for sounding too much like Kleenex, so it got postponed.

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Poison runs in her veins. That's what her dear old dad said, in between calling her a snake and a liar and the best daughter he could have ever hoped for. It's a certain kind of venom that, instead of killing the victim, just taps into the bit of the brain that trusts people and rips it out by the hair of its grey, wrinkly chinny chin chin. It's possibly the most powerful poison in existence, and she has curiously failed to develop any resistance to it.

It all began when Red told her about how snakes shouldn't bite their tongues.

She immediately responded by thinking of someone whose tongue she'd very much like to bite, someone who was probably out shooting things so he could fashion them into roast monster burgers and open his very own chain of Halloween themed fast food outlets.

Unfortunately, Vincent decided to defy all laws of probability by not going out and pumping monsters full of hot lead so he could serve them to the customers who weren't yet clamouring but who surely would be if he'd decided to do the sensible thing and market his target practice as a good meal. Instead, he decided that he'd much rather sit cross-legged next to the Cosmo Candle, not talking to Tifa, who was busy not ignoring the fact that Cloud and Aerith were locked in Bugenhagen's magical cosmic love chamber together.

And, because Vincent didn't talk to Tifa who wasn't ignoring Cloud and Aerith's date in the cosmic love chamber, she, Yuffie, decided not to forget to remember to drive him out of his mind with countless random questions, one of which may possibly perhaps have been about what kind of woman he preferred.

"The kind who have long, brown hair," he'd answered irritably, annoyed at being distracted from the strenuous task of not interrupting Tifa worrying about Cloud.

Yuffie ran her fingers through her own hair. Then, she ran her fingers through Tifa's longer, browner hair. (Tifa, curiously, didn't mind, because whilst she wasn't ignoring Cloud and Aerith's absence, she was also not paying for the large quantities of cocktails she was drinking.)

And Yuffie bit her tongue.

At once, it became apparent that her dad was right. Poison was in her veins. It just wasn't the poison she'd always assumed it was. Instead of being some sort of kleptomaniac serum, it was, in fact, burning and uncontrollable jealousy. Which, despite being somewhat less dangerous than the kleptomaniac serum, was a great deal less comfortable.

Fortunately, whilst stealing Tifa's cocktails to drown the jealous poison in her veins in alcohol, she hit upon the antidote.

Unfortunately, it involved waiting for Cloud to fall asleep and wrapping Aerith's spare bra around his sword in the most suggestive manner possible.

In the end, it turned out that Tifa also had poison in her veins. And that Cloud was nowhere near as good as her when it came to boxing.

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A/N: I offer no excuses for this, except that it was an experiment and that experiments generally go wrong before they go right.


	63. Electric Supernova

A/N: This prompt is from yours truly, picked to honour some of the truly ridiculous descriptions out there. Honestly, even in published literature, these can get a bit dire. Semi-risqué material contained within.

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Disclaimer: They say Square has a crack marksman for nerds like me. I say bring it on, because I play shooting games, too.

Also, if you don't wanna hear some weird and vaguely funny euphamisms, turn away now.

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All in all, she had to admit that sex wasn't all it had cracked up to be.

From the whispers in the schoolyard and the hushed reverence it had on the lips of adults, from the vast armies of perverts and the hallowed spot after the watershed on television, all the signs pointed to sex being the most important, earth-shattering thing around.

She'd read books, and not even the dirty kind, that described it as an electric supernova exploding inside you. It was one of the biggest businesses in the world, a marketing tool you could use to sell practically everything to everyone, and, according to a few whispered rumours, quite important to the success of the human race as a whole.

It was a perfect union, an honoured ideal, and the die-hard mission of most guys under the age of thirty (and quite a few over it). You could use it to find solace, find love and find your soulmate.

She found it sweaty.

Admittedly, it didn't help that her first experience of sex was walking in on her father having fun with one of the maids. Sure, the guy had needs, but he ought to get a room.

(Later, stinging logic said he had, indeed, gotten a room. The only problem was that it was the kitchen.)

And Don Corneo hadn't helped. After being kidnapped and hung upside down over a very large drop by a perverted dwarf, she found that her open-mindedness to some of the kinkier sexual practices went down a bit.

The final nail in the coffin was that sex, like sports, rope escape training and building flat pack furniture, was actually a lot more like hard work that it appeared. Seldom had Yuffie Kisaragi and hard work been observed in the same country, never mind the same room.

So, it was with a nervous grimace that she finally agreed to 'consummate her relationship', 'spank the monkey' and 'bang-a-rang' Vincent Valentine.

Her scowl lasted exactly five seconds. And then she found out just how fun it was to make him squirm.

It was, she found, actually quite entertaining to have him make noises that he wouldn't make anywhere else, or for anyone else. It was exciting to see new expressions bloom over his face when her fingertips brushed just the right spot. And when he finally stopped being a gentleman long enough to follow her orders and get on with it, it became positively enjoyable.

Still, electric supernovas? She'd expected to wake up, bathed in some sort of radiant afterglow halo, and find her legs sticking out of the wall, quivering, like darts after hitting a dartboard. In reality, she work up quite sticky, and her legs were still very attached. And achey.

All in all, it didn't even halfway live up to the hype it had been subjected to practically every day of her life. Vincent was pretty good (pretty _damn_ good, she later amended) but sex itself? It was actually a real disappointment.

Although, with Vinny, it happened to be one of the very best disappointments in the world.

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A/N: I leave you with a few words of wisdom. You may find yourself, when busy, deflecting conversations with a cheeky: "Is it better than sex? If not, I'm busy."

The correct answer is: "It's better than sex with you."

(I should have been a comedian. They're like accordions, but better at dodging fruit and veg.) I stole bang-a-rang from xkcd, but there it was a) unhyphonated and b) marked as an unlikely movie catchphrase. It has since become part of my everyday vocabulary, just to spite everyone.


	64. Red Cape

A/N: Well, yesterday, I received my first ever flame. After silently pitying the author (I always likened flames to graffiti: a lonely individual beating their fists against a world too large to care) I decided that the best way to celebrate this landmark is to update twice. Enjoy!

This prompt was from kaito142. Thanks! (I forgot what it was specifically about, but hey ho.)

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Disclaimer: Some woman in Spain (I think) now legally owns the sun, but is kindly lending it to everyone (because, whilst she could claim for all the energy it produces, she could also be sued for every instance of skin cancer, sun burn, and forest fires caused by the sun's rays). Square is kindly lending me the characters and settings of FFVII, mainly because they don't know I'm using them.

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His cape is the epitome of him. Blood-red, tattered, but seeming indestructible by fire, famine and giant energy blasts. Even the most controversial fashionistas eye it with a look of hungry desire, dreaming of all the controversy it could cause in the wrong hands.

How he acquired it? A mystery. Why he wears it? An enigma. When it was made? A riddle. A shroud shrouded in secrets, it lives up to its legend as the coolest garment in the war to save the Planet.

And as the most tempting target Yuffie Kisaragi has ever seen.

She, of course, knows the secrets of the cape. And tells the story to all who wish to hear it, for a nominal fee.

"Gather around, all ye mortals, and I shall tell you where Vinny got his comfort blanket," she calls. Usually, only Marlene and Denzel bother to hear the story again.

"Once upon a time, there was a Vinny. And twice upon a time, that Vinny decided he had to cross a desert. Maybe the one they built the Golden Saucer in. Maybe."

Vincent listens with an eyebrow raised, before going back to the crossword in the newspaper. It's a particularly fiendish one, mainly because it uses words that didn't exist when he was young.

"He bought himself an old, raggedy cloak to cross the desert in, with a full cowl and everything. Y'know the ones, right? He got himself a wrap. And plunged into the desert whole heartedly, despite not knowing the way."

He groans, and gets to his feet. His services are needed, and his crossword can wait.

"He was just in the middle of the desert, dying of thirst and stuff, when a giant sandworm appeared to devour him!"

Denzel and Marlene punctuated the story with eeks and giggles. They really never got tired of it.

"So he whipped his gun out of his leather trousers, and started blasting away! Which was actually really dumb, because he wasn't as ridiculously tough back then and the sandworm ate him," Yuffie went on. "But, inside the sandworm's belly, he found an awesome metal claw, and put it on. With it, he tore his way straight through the sandworm's stomach, ripping apart the entrails with a nonchalant grumble-"

It was at that point that he picked her up by the scruff of her neck and walked away, telling her off for scaring the children with such gory stories. She flashed him a cat's smile and kicked him in the shins a little.

It was all nonsense, of course. It was simply a story Yuffie had invented to scam the kids out of their candy. Although, he felt a grudging admiration for her creativity. She'd built the whole story around the one detail he'd ever told her about that cape.

Once, a long time ago, it was white.

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A/N: Well, there's the first of my two-shot. Onto the next!


	65. Diapers

A/N: Well, here goes the second part of my (somewhat spiteful) double update. This prompt was from Circle of Phoenix.

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Disclaimer: If in doubt, I didn't do it.

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It was unusual for his eyebrows to raise quite so far or quite so fast, but this was quite an exceptional circumstance. It seemed that if there was one thing which the Kisaragi Clan did better than anything else, it was revenge.

Yuffie had buried her face in his cloak. It was an admittedly childish gesture, but he didn't really blame her. He'd have done the same thing. As it was, all he could do was look very, very bemused.

Godoh Kisaragi flashed him a grin that belonged on a tiger's maw. It almost reminded him of the cat's smile Yuffie occasionally wore.

In silence, he handed Yuffie's baby picture back to her father. Godoh laughed at him and handed him another. He couldn't help but feel he was being punished as well, just by the sheer embarrassment he felt. What expression was he supposed to wear, seeing his partner sprawled in her diapers on the palace floor in the days _before_ she grew up and started giving him love bites in places he wouldn't share in public?

"I hate you, Dad. I really do," Yuffie hissed from somewhere behind his left elbow.

Godoh ignored her, and passed Vincent another baby photograph.

"I'm sorry. Yuffie really was an adorable child, but why was this urgent enough to call us from Edge?" he asked, finally feeling the torture was too much.

"It's a rite of passage. This is one of the best parts of being a dad- being able to mercilessly embarrass my only daughter in front of her boyfriend," Godoh snickered.

"I...see," he deadpanned. Yuffie burrowed a little further into his cloak.

Leaning in suddenly, Godoh hissed into Vincent's ear. "Take a good look at these photos. _That_ is what I expect you to produce. Do you understand?"

He didn't hiss it quite quietly enough. Yuffie heard, and decided to make sure her father's will could never come to pass by attempting to knee him in the gentleman's area.

As he dodged Yuffie's strikes, it became startlingly apparent: for the crime of stealing his daughter from him, Godoh was going to extract a grand and marvellous revenge. He only hoped he survived to pay him back.

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A/N: A shorter, jokier piece. Hope everyone enjoyed the double update!


	66. Concerto

A/N: Well, excitement over, and back to the usual routine. This prompt was from Blue Paper Plane- thanks!

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Musical Disclaimer: Calling Him in and out of nowhere, saying "If you won't save me, please don't waste my time." ('He' being my defence attorney.)

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It's sometimes the strangest things that get to you.

The last man hit the wall with a hollow crack, his strength shattered like a shot glass. The colour drained from his face and leaked out from the beating hole in his chest. Red, just like everyone else's.

A second. Two. Then, cautiously, he rose from behind the upended table, a plume of smoke curling lazily from his gun.

It was a typical bar room. The darts board hung crookedly on the wall, knocked askew by a stray bullet. Stools littered the floor, thrown in the prelude to the fight as the gangsters groped desperately for their guns. The pool table had been tossed onto its side and used for cover; the green felt was littered with craters, like a freshly bombed field.

It wasn't too messy, considering five men had died in it.

He took a step, and then another. The bowed floorboards groaned under his feet. Casually, he brushed his hand along the counter as he walked. When he lifted it, his fingertips had left streaks of blood along the polished mahogany.

When he reached the first corpse, he knelt. Something half prayer and half admonition passed his lips, and he solemnly flipped the body so the face, caved in with the force of the bullet, faced the floor.

A door creaked open beside his head.

Instantly, he was standing, gun flicking out like a striking snake. It collided, metal on metal, with a jarring crash that leapt down his arm and into his shoulderblade.

Yuffie lowered her shuriken and whistled.

"Did you fight these guys, or just drop a bomb in here?" she asked, walking past him and poking a bar stool with her toe. She ignored the body lying a couple of yards from her foot.

He wiped his forehead of the icy battle-sweat that had formed there. "You found the disk?"

She flashed him a CD, and smiled. It seemed her part of the mission had been a success. Whether he could truly label the killing of five men a victory, he didn't know.

He visited each man in turn, silently commending each to the Lifestream. He could do that much, at least. Yuffie kept silent, at a respectful distance. She knew not to intrude on his sombre duty.

As he finished, something caught his eye. A glinting curve against rough wood. Carefully, he leaned closer, cautious of any explosives that might have been secreted in the object. Once he was satisfied he wasn't going to be blown to bits, he picked it up, and turned it over in his hands for appraisal.

Smooth, polished wood leading to an elegant neck. Strong, almost elastic strings arranged delicately. It was a violin.

Was. Past tense.

The strings curled outwards like ivy. The smooth wood was covered in gunpowder. And the head of the elegant neck was several meters away, torn off by a stray bullet.

He looked at it, and felt a crushing sadness. Even broken and destroyed, the instrument had a strange, forlorn beauty. It was the beauty of the desert, vast and empty and unforgiving. It was silenced, forever unable to create because of a single act of destruction; it mourned what it was, what it had been, and what others would still be.

Violin in hand, he glanced at the dead men, the backs of their heads displayed proudly for the rest of the world in various states of deconstruction. A feeling, stealthy and unwanted, crept into his heart and burrowed in like a parasite, making it somehow heavier than before. It was the feeling that he, Vincent Valentine, stood in a broken world, and that he was part, parcel and participant in its brokenness.

Yuffie's hand fell softly on his shoulder, and he felt, with some wayward, unexplained sense, the tentativeness of her movements. Softly, she moved herself closer to him, warming him in a way all his cloaks and his leather failed to do.

He might be standing in a broken world. But at least he wasn't the only one.

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A/N: A little bit quieter than usual, and with a pinch more action.


	67. Candy Corn

A/N: This prompt was from CossetteLune. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I've beaten Shinryu, several Omega Weapons of various ugliness, Ozma and Penance. Square's crack legal team shouldn't cause me too many problems.

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Candy, frankly, is not a luxury. It is a necessity. Their household literally runs on the stuff. And it's all Yuffie's fault.

It's not that he _likes_ buying her candy. He considers any food with poor nutritional value a waste of effort and money. The problem is that she gets withdrawal symptoms. Shakes, trembles, light-headedness. And as much as he'd usually ignore them, she _is _his significant other. (Also, it would become a problem if she started fainting on missions.)

But, he can't overfeed her, either. Too much candy and she becomes a human missile, bouncing off the walls and crashing into anyone who happens to be sitting still. It plays havoc with his reading habits.

The real problem lies in the way that it has become a second form of currency in their household. A chocolate bar will buy him three hours of silence; a bag of gumdrops is worth a whole night's control of the television. It's to his advantage, but it reminds him of the way cigarettes are traded in prison. And with Yuffie's larcenous tendencies, he's not sure he wants to be making that association.

It's a little disconcerting, too, that she adores the one thing in the world that he knows least about. If he had prior knowledge of gumdrops, he would have wrested them from her grasp before she every experienced them.

The one thing he absolutely, positively cannot stand, however, is the corn-in-a-can romance she seems possessed by when she hits her sugar high. All of a sudden, she wants to lay her head on his knees and stroke his hair, whispering sweet, saccharine nothings to him. It bothers him that she only does it when sugar crazy, and it bothers him that he enjoys it so much.

All in all, he's not a fan of her candy habit. Sugar may make her sweeter, but too much leads to one hell of an overdose.

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A/N: I was genuinely stumped by this, mainly because I don't know what candy corn is. It's candy that looks like corn, but it also seems to be an American thing, and I've never tasted it so I can't offer any real insight on it. So, I broadened it out to candy, and got stuck there, too. Sorry about that.


	68. Smile, You're On Camera

A/N: Another one of mine, ho hum.

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Disclaimer: Y'know, even though I'm mean to lawyers, I'm kinda glad for their high prices. After all, fanfiction would be in trouble if it weren't so damn expensive for Square to launch court cases against us.

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The WRO is, of course, a kind-hearted organisation. If it were a president, it would not only play the saxophone and kiss babies, but it would then capture thugs and transmogrify them into money for the rest of the populace.

However, the fact remains that world regenesis is a very expensive business. And, to help rebuild the poorest areas, people in the richest areas have to chip in a little. Or a lot.

In Edge, the new, affluent city, belts are being tightened and economies are being made. Suddenly, saving fifty gil by buying the next crappiest brand is no longer an act of shame, but of overwhelming prudence.

Prudence that Yuffie Kisaragi does not have.

Luckily, Vincent does. Back in his Turk days, he took very close care of his budget (too much drink and not enough work made many a Turk poor), and rationing their household income would therefore be an easy task, if it weren't for the raging arguments he has with Yuffie about it. He can't even hide the money, because she's the world's biggest kleptomaniac and she knows all his hiding places.

There are a few things she absolutely refuses to make concessions on. These include candy, ice cream and ink pellets for Reeve's crisp, white shirt. He doesn't know why she refuses to compromise on those things, but he's prepared to accept it. Almost.

He also has a few principles. He outright refuses to skimp on quality when it comes to toilet paper. There are some places a person shouldn't have to worry about money, and the bathroom is one of them. Similarly, he always buys good batteries, simply because his day is so much more pleasant when acid does not leak inside of his prized electrical possessions.

However, cuts must be made. And with that in mind, he wanders into the local market, to purchase some clothes.

-_Pyjamas_-

Of all the countless pranks she's played in her time at the WRO, this one will be the best.

The weird thing is, it could be called justice, in a way. In a time of tightened belts, it seems somewhat insensitive of Reeve to buy himself a personal coffee machine instead of going to the cafeteria like everyone else. Admittedly, he bought it out of his own pocket, and he was strong-armed into it by the matronly secretary he hired last month, but still.

Sneaking into the office was actually pretty easy. Actually, it's slightly worrying; she should talk to Reeve about his security. Although, maybe when he cooled down.

When she reached Reeve's office, and the coffee machine that was to be his undoing, she slung the rucksack she was carrying on the ground. It contained only two things- triple strength wasabi and a hell of a lot of laxatives. She stifled an impish giggle, drawn by the image of Reeve, in his weird dress-coat thing, running desperately for the toilet, cup of coffee sloshing around in his hand. Snickering, she reached down to take out the tools of her trade.

_Rip._

It was a terrible sound, like the tolling of a bell, only it wasn't a bell, it was the noise of those new shorts Vinny had gotten her damn near splitting in two. She spat out a mouthful of Wutaian curses, wishing pestilence on the market traders and Reeve and Vinny and Vinny's kids, until she realised that if he was gonna have kids they'd probably be hers too. She pondered for a moment, before deciding that really, she should attend to her clothing emergency before pranking Reeve. After all, she could always get him tomorrow. With that in mind, she bailed.

_-Pyjamas-_

With a practice aura of official casualness, Reeve breezed into the building, bidding the receptionists a good day with a nod of his head and a tip of the hat Tifa had sent him. How he managed to tip it, no one knew; it was a beanie, obviously hand-knitted by a novice. Lopsided, unloved, it still found a home on Reeve's noggin.

When he _finally_ reached his office (why was the boss's office always at the top of the building, anyway?) it was cold. Weirdly so. Almost like the door had been open for the entire night. Even if his building wasn't too secure on account of budget cuts, Reeve knew how to keep his security. Sitting down at his computer, he logged into the CCTV circuit.

Fast-forwarding through the night's footage, he almost wasn't surprised to find Yuffie Kisaragi appearing in it, with the obvious intention of doctoring that ridiculous coffee machine he'd bought. He'd only got the damn thing because the receptionist kept saying she was worried about him getting tired and running out of blood sugars. He made a mental note to donate it to the cafeteria.

However, he was quite surprised when the White Rose of Wutai bent over and her shorts ripped, revealing what were, even under the night vision of CCTV, _very _pink underwear.

He hovered over the moral considerations of what he was about to do for a second. Then he shrugged. Whatever happened, Yuffie more than deserved it. And it was going to be the best (if the only) prank he ever played.

A few clicks later, he sat back, appetite for revenge satiated. It had actually turned out okay, in the end. His office was still secure, she hadn't gotten around to doctoring his unwanted coffee machine, and 'Yuffie Kisaragi shows her knickers' had arrived in the inbox of every employee in the WRO. He was, on the whole, pleased with himself.

At least, until Vincent caught up with him...

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A/N: And, for the first time in anything I've written, Reeve triumphs over Yuffie. Kind of. Also, a shout out for anyone who's pinching their pennies at the moment.


	69. Inappropriate Relative

A/N: Sorry for the late posting. I kinda took a nap which turned into six hours of sleep. This prompt goes to drillpill. Thanks! (Even if I can't respond to your messages, I do read them. Just so you know).

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Disclaimer: Copyright stands useless before the epicness of Lux Aeterna. (I've finally, after two years, moved on from the 'omg I heart one of his songs' phase to the 'omg I have a huge metaphorical erection for all of his music' stage.)

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They're both very aware of how very embarrassing any contact with the Kisaragi clan could be. Yuffie prides herself on her forthrightness, but unfortunately, so does the rest of her family. And having her father ask her, in a serious tone, if she 'banged Vinnie last night' is not her idea of fun.

Still, they both agree that there are worse family faux pas than that.

There was an incident at Cosmo Canyon which served to illustrate the point. They'd stopped off, when Cloud was stocking up on Butterfly Edges for Throw spam, at the Cosmo Candle. The flame's effect was massive; even Vincent found himself acquiring a certain loquaciousness. And as for Aerith? She was always open, but she found herself talking about her recollections of the journey.

She was midway into a fascinating story when a detail stuck in Vincent's mind. Clearing his throat, he said with not nearly enough warmth:

"Aerith, Red. You, too, were experimented on by Hojo. I consider you family in that regard."

It hung heavy in the air after he'd said it, and he wondered if he had perhaps come over too...forwards. Still, even if they didn't have a bond from the experiments, there was certainly the 'brothers and sisters in arms' mentality fostered by the constant-

"So. If you're all related, does that mean it was incest when Hojo tried to get Red to bang Aerith in the test tube?" Yuffie asked, after taking a moment to check her memory of Aerith's story.

He looked at Aerith, then at Red. They looked away. He groaned, and put his head in his hands.

After that, anything Godoh Kisaragi can do is water off a duck's back.

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A/N: Had to be slightly shorter because of time pressures. Sorry about that!


	70. Woof

A/N: Well, this prompt is from Rommel. Rommel, the dog. And unless I'm greatly mistaken, he's the very first animal to suggest a prompt for this fic. (However, from now on, I'm only accepting prompts from animals if the animal in question is a parrot). Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...Wait a minute. I just checked my schedule, and I'm writing _on_ Christmas day! Which means I'll be writing on the twelfth day of Christmas, too...And New Year's Eve! How do I get myself into these things...

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It was a bundle of chocolate coloured fluff, cuddly and cute like the Carebears were supposed to be before they started firing lasers at passers by. And it liked them. It liked Vincent especially, because to its naïve puppy eyes, his glove looked an awful lot like a fire hydrant.

The puppy wagged its tail.

Yuffie waggled her behind.

In truth, it wasn't a puppy. It was a cub. Obviously, Cloud hadn't understood Tifa's policy of 'you can have your silly little wolf towel-hanger on your coat, but you bring one home and I will personally cave in its skull, and yours too'.

Tifa didn't like having a wolf-cub in her bar, partially because it didn't get along with Red, who kept trying to teach it philosophy, but mostly because it kept eating people's ankles. And whilst her regular clientèle were too drunk to notice this until they finally stood up and fell over due to a lack of ankles and an over-abundance of alcohol, it still wasn't good for business.

Other things that weren't good for business included Cloud's villa in Costa del Sol, although she was more than happy to toss his hero ass on the king-sized bed it contained and show him some _real_ animal magnetism. And whilst she was doing that, Yuffie and Vincent were house-sitting.

In some ways, Vincent was happy for the distraction provided by the puppy. Every moment she spent playing with it was a moment in which she _wasn't_ attaching an IV to the booze taps. And, consequently, another moment in which he didn't have to worry about hunting down a criminal who was eligible for a mandatory liver transplant with her.

The puppy-cub barked.

Yuffie barked back.

The same thing had been going on since they'd arrived. He had to admit, it had lessened the quality of their conversations (although, after their arguments he was fond of remarking that 'woof' was about as sophisticated as Yuffie ever got). Still, she was happy, and the wolf was happy, so that was all that mattered.

The puppy chased its bottom.

Yuffie chased hers.

Now that he thought of it, he'd always wanted a pet, although he though that cats were, perhaps, more his style. They required less energy, and would be content to stare back when he accidentally assumed his 'killer death glare' as Yuffie called it. (Quite what killer death was, he couldn't be sure). Beyond cats, his tastes were somewhat exotic; he'd always wondered what it would be like to share his house with an owl. Although, he wouldn't be going anywhere near bats, if he could help it; there were enough vampire rumours already, and he knew (from the colony that had lived in the Shinra Mansion) that bat droppings were among the foulest things you could ever hope to find outside of a slaughter house.

He was interrupted from his musings by the soft 'whumpf' of a puppy sliding across the polished floor and crashing into the counter. He was unsurprised, then, when he heard the strident 'crap!' of a ninja who had slid across the floor and done exactly the same thing.

Still, the puppy wasn't his job. His job was to sit in Tifa's house, and sit in it he would. But he felt a strange but utterly compelling urge to assess the the order in which Cloud and Tifa kept their respective sock draws- or, he thought with a guilty thrill, their _shared_ sock draw. He didn't know whether to be proud that he finally had curiosity for someone's life other than his own, or ashamed because he was becoming an infernal gossip-

The puppy cocked its leg towards the counter.

A second ticked away. Then, he heard something that sounded suspiciously like Yuffie unzipping her shorts.

And, once again, Vincent Valentine dashed forwards to prevent a catastrophe that may well have ended the world as he knew it.

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A/N: Sorry. Couldn't resist that last toilet (training) joke.


	71. Movie Night

A/N: Well, ladies and gents, we're forced to take a break in our schedule. You see, not only was it my last day of school, but in order to celebrate the occasion, I trekked into town with four friends and (gasp) watched a film. That film was Tron Legacy, in 3D, no less. And although I think it was a little low on plot (and thematic development), it was a nice action romp. They didn't use the 3D to great effect, though.

Long story short, I got home late and tired, so that can only mean two things: Filler, and drabble. Enjoy?

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Disclaimer: If you squint and hit yourself real hard, this chapter is in 3D too. (I take no responsibility for any injuries this might cause. In fact, I take no responsibility for anything.)

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When the planets align, they celebrate with a movie night.

(He sighs, she smirks. She hasn't gotten past the 'Vince is old, so he must be _amazed_ by moving pictures' phase yet.)

The sofa, soft and formless, seems to devour them like a leather and fabric swamp. And the butter popcorn inevitably ends up tipped over his crotch.

Still, there are worse things. There are the schemes. Yuffie's imagination, ever fertile, seems to be fired higher by films. Usually, it ends in a prank.

He wouldn't mind, but tying glo-sticks to your Razor Ring do not an ID disk make.

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A/N: Yes, I referenced the movie I just saw. Go me.

**Also, I now have 100 prompts. This means I will not be taking further prompts until we get to chapter 100. **Sorry about that.


	72. Third Wheel

A/N: Well, last update I had developed, briefly, the terrible ailment known as 'a life'. Fortunately, I'm fully recovered, so business as usual. This prompt is from Anzer'ke- thanks!

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Disclaimer: When copyright law gets me down, I just laugh. Because I know that, when Apple finally gets around to developing the iRobot, Will Smith and Isaac Asimov are going to collectively choke a bitch.

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No one can like everyone. For most people, it's a given, a natural law of life. You will have friends, you will have enemies, you will have acquaintances, and then the rest of the world will just float through your world harmlessly, like big, fleshy clouds. Occasionally, one of these clouds will pull down its pants and urinate all over your freshly washed car, but generally they don't matter. It's the way of the world.

Until you meet Yuffie Kisaragi.

Yuffie Kisaragi has many friends, because she's famous, outgoing, and (like many five year olds) incapable of waiting at a bus stop without striking up a conversation. She has many acquaintances, because she's famous, outgoing and (like many five year olds) incapable of keeping her attention on one person for more than fifteen minutes. But, strangely, Yuffie (like many five year olds) has no enemies.

Only victims.

Psych warfare is her speciality, and she practices it with an all-enveloping passion. Perhaps it's her way of subduing her battle urges. It is, after all, better to mess with someone's head than sink a shuriken into it. She knows when to keep it subtle, and when to sneak into their house and brick up all entrances to the bathroom.

One of her favourite weapons is, of course, Vincent.

His presence in a room sows an aura of nervousness within it. Just him scratching his nose can cause people to deteriorate into madness. But, apart from that, he contains inside him a number of monsters. Galian Beast, Hellmasker, Death Gigas...and the monster with Green Eyes.

It works both ways, of course. For a male victim, it's as simple as plonking herself into his lap. For some reason, the sound of Yuffie's rump settling on any living thing acts as a homing beacon for him, and he rushes to the scene, shooting killer death glares hither and thither like a Gatling gun having a heart attack.

For females, it calls for a little bit more subtlety. But only a little.

He finds that he knows when the office gossip is bitching about her. Yuffie is not naturally given to huge public shows of affection; she prefers to sneak away to secluded spots, drawing him into the shadows briefly but hungrily. But when trouble is afoot, Yuffie drags him through the office by the hand. When she finds a good spot (in range of her rival, of course) she proceeds to pepper him with kisses so involved that they're barely even legal.

Of course, there's fewer better positions to be in during a psyche war than looking over Vincent's shoulder, tongue sticking out and your leg wrapped around his hip.

Fighting hate with hate? Not bad. But fighting hate with love? Like the expression on Reeve's face when he walks in: priceless.

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A/N: Short and corny. Follows the prompt of 'third wheel' on account of how everyone feels when they have friends too fond of excessive PDA.


	73. Stale

A/N: Well, this prompt was from drillpill. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: They can't sue me if they can't put it in a language I understand. And, for further notice, I only understand Klingon. (Come on. What are the chances of a: lawyers having friends and b: those friends being Trekkies? I'm practically invincible.)

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True love's path never runs smooth.

That is, of course, until you start comparing love to a slippery slope. Once you start doing that, it becomes clear that true love is, in fact, a waterslide. And what kind of idiot designs a waterslide that isn't smooth?

There's others, too. There's the one about star crossed lovers. She guess that could fit them (does Meteor count as a star?) but, not really, no. Unless it's talking about _ninja_ stars, in which case only when she's pissed off and he's not paying attention.

Tall, dark and handsome kinda applies to him, if it weren't for the gruesome scars all over his upper body from transforming all the time. The meek shall inherit the earth? Well, not ageing helps, but she's not sure if running around with a triple barreled pistol and an itchy finger counts as _meek_. (Besides, for the meek to _inherit_ the earth, he'd have to have kids. She doesn't plan on letting him have kids without her, and even then, he only gets one. After that, she's going to rip his nuts off for the whole 'excruciating pain of childbirth' thing.)

Big things come in small packages? Well, ignoring the obvious and obscene innuendo, it could be true. She's kinda short, with a big personality- right?

The pot calling the kettle black? Her pot's blue. And she has a red kettle. He already got to design the black and white checked kitchen, and that's about as Goth as she's prepared to let her house become.

Plenty more fish in the sea? Well, no. Finding immortal, part-demon gunslingers is hard in this day and age. And she hasn't exactly lost track of the number of kickass ninja princesses she's run into lately.

Girls are only attracted to jerks and bad guys? Seems to work, until you realise that _she's _the one with the rampant kleptomania and semi-sadistic pranking tendencies. Compared to her, he's a complete pussy cat.

Which, by the way, curiosity didn't kill. Nor did Meteor, Deepground or Hi-Hoe-Silverhair. Okay, so he might have had a few near misses, but nothing a phoenix down and a potion suppository couldn't fix.

"Yuffie. What are you doing?" he asks, somewhere near her left ear.

"I'm thinking. It's important," she says, hastily covering up the piece of paper she was doodling on.

"If you say so," he replies doubtfully, and moves away. He gets the feeling that he'll pay for his intrusion later.

That, of course, is the danger of having a relationship which isn't _quite_ a cliché. There is a danger that, as you hurtle down the newly built waterslide of love, your very-not-a-fish-in-the-sea-ninja-princess may decide to be a klepto jerk that girls don't always fall for, and jack your swim trunks.

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A/N: I think I may have butchered the English language with that last bit. 'Stale' is referring to the clichés used in this chapter.

By the way, just so I don't have to copy this out several times when I get around to review replies: last chapter, by 'the monster with Green Eyes', I was not referring to Chaos. I was, in fact, talking about jealousy.


	74. Mockingbird

A/N: This is one of my own prompts. So, y'know. Talk amongst yourselves.

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Disclaimer: I've decided to lead a snowball assault on anyone approaching my house wearing suspicious suits. So far, I've driven away three lawyers, a dodgy insurance salesmen and what _might_ have been the Men In Black.

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At five-hundred miles an hour and three thousand feet above ground, she begins to shiver. It's not the thick, musty lurch of travel sickness, nor the phantom ebb of battle nausea. She knows it, instinctively, to be the kind of sickness that signals _loss. _

She walks, slowly, taking tiny baby-steps on the tips of her toes and swinging her legs like pendulums, to the window. Above her at the helm, Cid sees nothing.

The inky blackness of the rushing night sky is transfixing to her. She wishes, just once, that the Shera could go into space; to see the flowing tapestry of darkness rush by, spotted with the occasional burning, neon star.

It seems her destiny is written on the sky, sometimes. The clouds break and part, with strange, indescribable shapes, and if she only knew how to read them, she could find out her future. She'd chase it, somehow; like chasing faeries made by laser pens, only they'd be flying across the sky, in arcing, unfurling ribbons of light, and she'd be forever chasing them.

"Yuffie."

Vincent's touch does little for her. It's the sound of his voice that pulls her back, that stops her trying to leap into the sky and catch hold of the ribbons of fate.

"It's too late."

Like an ax-blow. A second one. She still had her scars from the first; they opened, and wept.

"So, Dad didn't make it?"

"We just got the news. The lung infection...he passed a few minutes ago."

She sighed, letting all the air rush out of her. She felt a strange, prickling burning spreading over her body. Her fingertips couldn't feel the steel of the Shera; it was like she was in the cold of space. It wasn't like she had expected it would be. She couldn't even feel it when the tears started falling, and Vincent's arms curled themselves around her.

To her, Fate was just a mockingbird that sat on your shoulder and laughed when you did something wrong. And here, trapped half a world away from her father in a steel coffin that floated above the sea, it seemed very wrong indeed.

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A/N: Yeah, I wanted to go dark but didn't quite manage it. At least it's one of mine, so I haven't ruined anyone's request. Might do a second part somewhere down the line, to tie up the very loose ends I left.

On a different note, the Christmas day one will be a special.


	75. Christmas Special 2010

A/N: A merry Christmas to everyone! Due to reasons involving my own monumental stupidity when it comes to scheduling and my equally gargantuan stubbornness when adhering to that schedule, I'm writing on Christmas day. So, Christmas special, anyone?

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Disclaimer: Santa, in his infinite wisdom, decided that 'toiletries' were a suitable substitute for 'the complete rights to Final Fantasy VII'. So, just go with it.

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'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring- not even a mouse.

Mainly because they were being held at knife point.

Reno and Rude looked on quizically as Yuffie dragged Rufus Shinra around like a shopmaker's dummy, her knife in her teeth and a sack tied around her waist. It was possibly the worst hostage securement ever, and unless Yuffie could somehow rotate her head with enough force to slit Rufus' throat, he was in no danger at all. The only reason Reno hadn't parked his electro-mag rod in the side of Yuffie's face was that he actually kinda liked her (especially when drunk). Rude's excuse was that it was a lot funnier than Rufus' normal attempts at charades.

"So, you see, I'm like Christmas Robin Hood. Robbing the rich to give presents to the poor, y'know? And I thought, who's richer than Rufus?" Yuffie babbled on, with an additional flurry of muffled 'I have a knife in my mouth' noises.

"Help the poor? And I suppose the millions of gil I've streamlined into the WRO count for nothing, do they?" Rufus retorted coolly.

"Nope. Now shut up, or I'll make you dance like a puppet. It'll be funny. Hey, maybe we can make some poor-money that way- videotape it, sell the footage," Yuffie went on, grabbing a present from under the tree and dropping it into her sack.

Unfortunately, Rufus did not see dancing like a puppet as a pleasurable activity and buttoned his lip. In an attempt to provoke puppet-dancing hilarity, Reno unbuttoned his.

"So, uh, I really dig the rebellious, virtuous thing. Nice tights, too."

Yuffie shot him a glare and carried on stealing presents. She was dressed as a kind of cross between Santa and Robin Hood, but the coat was a good deal too big, and as the store had run out of white tights, she'd had to settle for neon pink. Of course, the sleeves of the coat hung down so far over her hands that it was difficult to pick locks, and neon pink tights are not known for their excellent heat insulation properties on winter nights.

"So, uh, why're you stealing our presents? We only had six," Reno pointed out. He didn't mention that all six presents (two from him to Rufus and Reeve, and the same sort of configuration for the others) probably just contained the same toiletries they'd given each other last year, and the year before that. They were gradually trading around the sets without ever using them, in the best of Christmas traditions.

"Because the next richest person I know is Barret 'cause of his oil fields, and he's got a gun. On his damn arm. I'd not _that_ stupid," she hissed. "And the next richest after that's me. I'm not robbing _me_. I _like_ me."

"You forgot."

It was Rude. His voice created a trail of silence in its wake, like the tail of a comet.

Finding her tongue, Yuffie proceeded to stick it out at him. "I never forget. I'm like an elephant, only I can fit down chimneys and jack people's stuff."

"One thing," Rude said, extending one finger and pointing it upwards. "A trap."

Following his finger, Yuffie spotted in the rafters a spring of mistletoe, positioned exactly under the fireplace she'd just emerged from, and was about to disappear into. She looked at Rufus, then Reno, then Rude.

"Aww, that's so sweet! I didn't know you guys were out of the closet," she cooed. Reno spluttered.

"What? What makes you think-"

"Why else would you put up mistletoe in a house than only contains guys?" she asked, her eyes catlike and shiny. "Gawd, that's so damn _cute!_"

The blood started to drain out of Rufus' face. It was probably a good thing he didn't have his gun. Otherwise, he would have set it to wide radius and blasted his godly outrage all over the living room.

"Actually," Rude said, "We got a tip off."

Slowly and cautiously (in case Yuffie's head-roatational powers really did exist), he handed Yuffie a crumpled note. It was slightly ripped. She read aloud the words, written in elegant, curled font:

"_Dear Yuffie_

_It is not prudent to record plans for a Christmas burglary in your diary. As an upstanding citizen, I felt compelled to inform the victims of your intention, and to suggest a suitable deterrent._

_On the subject of diaries, I would greatly appreciate it if you would leave mine alone. When I'm aware you have read it, I retaliate by reading yours; however, some of the material within it, including the three page fictional short story featuring Cloud and I having **very** intimate relations, make for uncomfortable reading. This makes my current retribution scheme more damaging to me than to you. So, in summary, please leave my private musings alone._

_From Vincent Valentine"_

"That dirty son of a bat dropping! I'll skin his hide later," she seethed afterwards.

"Yeah, _later_. Right now," Reno grinned, stepping closer, "You owe me and the Boss a smooch."

"...Me, too," Rude added, doing likewise.

Yuffie's face hung aghast. Rufus looked up with a serpentine grin. "Come now, Miss Kisaragi. It's a Christmas tradition to kiss under the mistletoe. It's the season of love and giving, after all."

"And I _looooove_ what you're giving away," Reno smirked.

Faced with imminant defeat, Yuffie decided to do the only thing she could do.

Book Vincent Valentine in for an impromptu Christmas facelift, with an extra helping of _pain_.

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A/N: Hope you're enjoying your Christmas, and your Christmas specials!


	76. Cookie Time

A/N: This prompt is from Aagwa. Thanks!

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Disclaimer of music: Save me, she's a liar! (Gypsys lawyer woman told me I had copyright. Tarot are not evidence in a court of law, people! Don't be fooled!)

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When the door opens and her friend finds her on the doorstep, red-eyed and in her jammies, there's no hesitation.

"Come on, Yuffie. Cookie time," Tifa smiles, leading her gently by the hand. She goes along with it. Free cookies are never a bad thing, after all. They pad through the hall and towards the kitchen. The kitchen's got a lightbulb the size of a rugby ball and twice as bright as the sun. She half-remembers Cloud saying he once used it to interrogate any punk who dared pick on his orphans.

"So," Tifa says, ominously cheerful. Yuffie braces for the interrogation. A bead of sweat breaks under her headband. "Why, pray tell, am I awake at half past three in the morning, making break-up cookies for one of my best friends?"

She takes a deep breath and a cookie. Her hand trembles as she reaches towards the plate. She eats it quickly, craving the sweet sugar in her blood. Instead of answering, she mumbles a question about whether the cookies are double choc or not.

"Double choc, Yuffie. Always double choc for breakup cookies."

As far as changing the subject went, it was Tifa one, Yuffie nothin'. The fighter leaned forwards as she stood, her hands on the top of her chair, stretching her muscles lithely.

"I have to warn you, Yuff. Vincent's life might just depend on your answer."

Yuffie almost grins. The cookies are working.

"Well, let's just say 'kids', and leave it at that," she says with a wan smile.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

An awkward silence seems to stretch between them. It grows, like a snowball, until it's palpable.

"On second thoughts, Yuff, let's _not_ leave it at that."

Yuffie shakes her head. Her hair's out of whack so it seems to shake more freely than usual.

"Well, I want them. And he doesn't." she began. An annoying kind of cough-choke-bubble comes from her throat, but she swallows it down and carries on. "So, we got kinda out of hand, and a flipped. I said, if you're not gonna even try, I'll just have to go out and get kids from someone else."

"Yuff-"

"-And he said that if I did then neither I nor they would be his responsibility, all in that dumbass formal tone he uses when he wants to go all gothic white knight and start busting people over the head with his goddamn pistol for no reason." she says, then remembers to breathe. "And then he stormed out, probably to go all gothic white knight. I swear, Teef, he pays his pistol more attention than he pays me."

Tifa nods, and lets Yuffie complain a while. At least it's not as bad as the times when she turns up, still blind with indignant rage, completely convinced that Vincent had no possible reason for doing, saying, or _not_ doing or saying whatever he did or didn't do. At least she knows she pushed a little too hard. It's progress.

As the last pitiful coughs and splutters leave her frame, Yuffie finally notices something. The cookies are home made, but not warm, and not hardened. Teef must've baked them recently, but why the hell would she conveniently have a full batch of double-choc break-up cookies on the very night when they were needed. And isn't Tifa being just a little _too_ sage and philosophical about this whole thing?

"Teef," she hisses, and the tone of her voice lets Tifa know the game is up.

"Well, I'm sorry, Yuffie. What was I _supposed_ to do? You're not the _only_ one who needs break-up cookies tonight, y'know. He might not want kids, but that doesn't mean he wasn't hurt." Tifa sighs.

Yuffie looks at the cookies on the plate, and looks at Tifa's tired face, and suddenly feels that she has a lot of growing up to do before she should be thinking about kids.

"Besides, he's not exactly the bad guy in this whole thing, Yuff. I mean, come on- he even made sure to save you some cookies." Tifa goes on.

Yuffie begins to worry her bottom lip. "...Teef, where can I find him?"

She huffs, and decides whether or not to tell her. Probably best to. Otherwise she'll never get any sleep.

"Cosmo Canyon, of course. Red might not be allowed to sleep on the couch, but Vincent's got a VIP spot." she says with a wan smile.

"Thanks, Teef." the ninja says, dragging her in for a surprise hug. And then, like a flash, she's gone, out of the front door and into her Shadowfox before Tifa could say another word.

She takes the cookies with her.

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A/N: Hah. I turned a relatively crack prompt into drama. (Honestly, why doesn't this happen with ALL break ups? Everyone needs to keep a batch of cookie batter around, just in case. I swear, it'd make everything a whole lot better.)


	77. Bulletproof

A/N: This prompt was from kitty materia princess, with a title by yours truly. Hope you enjoy it!

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Disclaimer: This work is legal. Just like that guy on the corner who keeps offering you a cheap Rolex.

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Her wrists hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her arms hurt. And if her pride had eyes, they'd be big, googly and watering.

Of course, Cid takes great pains to explain how very suspicious her injuries are. "How'dya injure your goddamn _wrist_, anyway? The only numbskulls I know with wrist cramp are teenage boys and people who play those new-fangled videogames."

She points out that he can't _possibly_ call videogames new-fangled, mainly because he was meant to be the pilot for the Shinra Rocket, largely considered one of the greatest technological marvels in the world.

"Don't care. I don't like them weird motion control things. The remotes look like wangs. Come to think of it, that means there's no difference between teenage boys and gamers. Either way, they're playin' with one," he says, stubbing out his cigarette in one of her dad's prized bonsai trees. She's tempted to remind him of the phallic imagery associated with cigarettes, but she doesn't. (She could mention his airship, but that's imagery overkill. Especially considering he flew it into a giant hole, AKA North Cave.)

Of course, she's not a teenage boy. And whilst she does occasionally play videogames (no one will trust her to drive in real life), she doesn't do it so much she gets wrist cramp. As with so many other things in her life, she blames it directly on Vincent Valentine.

"So, tell me, Vinny," she'd said, cockily, "How many wet dreams did you have about this when you were a kid?"

He gave her a glower. His eyes were unnaturally red, even for him. It was probably because he was angry, but she chose to believe it was because of sleep dep. Probably coffin withdrawal, too.

"Yuffie. Do not point that at anything you don't intend to shoot," he groaned.

"Yeah, yeah. So long as it doesn't go off in my hand, right?" she winked.

"It's a quality piece of equipment. It would take a lot more than that to get it to fire."

"Ooh, _baby_! Someone likes it _rough_! We'd better get serious!" she cackled. The red in his eyes rose to fever pitch as he finally realised that their entire conversation was a shabbily disguised innuendo.

"Yuffie, if you won't behave, _put the gun down!_" he growled.

She handed him the revolver, but not before licking the barrel up and down in a highly suggestive manner. "Aww. I know I've been a naughty girl, but don't take away my toys."

"I'm sorry, Yuffie, but you have an attractive face. And I would very much hate for you to blow a hole in it," he frowned.

He was right, of course, about the attractive face bit definitely, and maybe about the other thing. Guns were pretty dangerous, even in the firing range.

"Why I agreed to tutor you, I don't know. I suppose it stops you from going out and trying to do it yourself, and getting hurt in the process," he carried on grumbling. "Truthfully, I'd far prefer you didn't touch guns at all."

"Hey, you know a gal with a gun turns you on," she said breezily. "Okay, okay. Let's take this seriously. How'd you fire this doohickey, again?"

They went over the basics. Don't point if you aren't prepared to shoot. Aim carefully, with both hands. Relax the shoulders. Deep breath, and pull the trigger gradually so you don't know exactly when it'll fire. That way, you don't overcompensate for the recoil.

None of which helped. Her silhouetted robber remained untouched, although if he'd had a third leg growing at a right angle to his hip, it'd be full of lead. Vincent's target's head was literally caved in, so he'd had to start aiming at random body parts to show how awesome he was.

"Something's wrong with this, Vince. I'm following all these guidelines for awesome accuracy and still can't hit a cow's ass with a banjo, but you run around with your gun in one hand, doin' freaking _backflips_, and you still never miss. What gives?" she pouts.

"Yuffie, all I can say is that it has been a long time since I studied the Laws of Physics, and I am perfectly content to ignore the ones that do not apply," he deadpanned. It took her almost five seconds to realise he was making a joke. She honoured it with a nervous, non-committal laugh.

"Truthfully, it is a matter of practice, dedication, and several experimental additions to my physiology," he said gravely. She decided that it probably wasn't a joke this time. "Additionally, Cerberus is custom-made for my hands and aiming habits."

"Huh. In that case, can I shoot your gun?" she asked, ever the optimist.

He gave her an unusually severe look. "I though we had finished with the sexual metaphors a little while ago."

"Sexual metaphor?" she asked. He sighed and started packing up the equipment. "How was that a- _oh._ That's a good one, Vince!"

He groaned again. Sometimes, he regretted his weapon choice. Why hadn't he gone for something that didn't have so many sexual images attached to it, like a spear or maybe a nice, big sword?

"Well, as thanks for letting me practice," she said, strapping herself into the car, "I'll teach you how to toss shuriken off as quick as lightning."

His eyebrow twitched. It was going to be a long drive home.

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A/N: The obvious irony is that most weapons have at least some phallic imagery. Even Cait Sith blows his Shell Trumpet. Possible exceptions include Barret (although that's a little iffy). Poor Shelke, though. Tight bodysuit and glowing, penetrating energy swords. It's almost as bad as Tifa, except people actually _like_ Tifa. (Sorry, Shelke fans, but she gets ignored or hated a whole lot.)

**Also: **Well, I was thinking about stuff to do in the New Year, so I dug out a book one of my old friends gave me for my birthday. It's basically one of those books about how to write fiction, but it includes over 200 (if the blurb is to be believed) writing exercises.

I'm looking for a few people (maybe five, as a maximum) who'd be interested in practicing/developing their writing skills. The theory is this: we all do the same exercise, and we all read each other's take on it. We can pick over what's wrong, incorporate what's right, and steal any idea good enough to steal. Add in some good-natured rivalry and semi-competitive smack talk, and it should be pretty fun.

The exercises range through a whole bunch of things; it's designed to help you on the way to writing a novel. Obviously, you can adapt it into a fanfiction setting and publish it on-site if you so please. You'll probably get a bunch of ideas from doing it, and you'll be able (and kinda required) to experiment with different styles and find what you're most comfortable with. And having a few peers who're also doing it should be a good motivating factor, right?** (Quoted from my forum)**

Anyone interested should either send me a PM or go to the forum (dig around on my profile, you should be able to get there easily) and say so in a post. Ideally, I'd like to get it all set up by mid January.

Okay, enough advertising. Off you go! **Edit: Due to unforseen demand (I honestly didn't think too many people would want it) and me giving a bit more thought to organisational issues, I've decided that ten people is a more suitable maximum. Current numbers will be posted in the forum if you would like to check.**


	78. Inevitable

A/N: Well, here's the New Year's Eve edition. It's not a special, though. The prompt came from aagwa- thanks!

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Disclaimer: My news year's resolution this year is, "Magic is not an excuse for breaking copyright."

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Her father used to say that the only certain things in life were death and taxes. He was, of course, wrong: she's been dodging her taxes for years. But death, death is certain, particularly around her. The White Rose of Wutai has her thorns, and to prick your finger is to win yourself eternal sleep. That's just the way it goes.

She finds that men (it's always the men she kills, somehow, always the men) never cease to find new ways of breaking. Some twitch and shiver afterwards, their rag-doll limbs shuddering like an electrified frog, somehow lifeless even when in thrall to the last sparks of life. Others break, literally, heads and ribs and hearts all broken and shattered when they hit the ground, like stained windows in cathedrals, spilling red liquid glass everywhere as if in warning to those who remained.

She's seen men toss, crumple, fold, fall, crash, dive, bleed, kick, scream, howl, spit, curse, hiss and gurgle. And as much as she tries to avoid it, she finds there's a kind of morbid fascination growing in her, like a bubble in her chest, gently expanding, making her watch every last spasm, every desperate scrabble for one more breath and every crushing realisation that it won't come.

So when Vincent Valentine told her it was a hard thing to kill a man, she laughed in his face.

How was it hard? A punch could kill a man if you did it hard enough. A shuriken would rip through bone and muscle quicker than most people could blink. And a bullet would crumple a human like a paper napkin. It was as easy as flicking your wrist.

"It isn't the difficulty in the kill, Yuffie," he'd said, red eyes glinting, "But death's nature as a final and irrevocable change. As with all things, what you do has repercussions; as your actions change those around you from living to dead, you also begin to change along with them."

The morbid bubble in her chest swelled and burst, sending shockwaves through her ribcage and rattling her heart in its holdings. She hadn't _thought_ about it that way. She _was_ changing; the obsessions, the flippancy, the perverse pleasure in each new form of the end.

"But, it's not for certain, right? You can change back, can't you?" she asked, a strange quaver in her voice that she'd never heard before.

"Death is always inevitable, Yuffie," he sighed. "As is change. But that does not mean you should be afraid of them. Just decide whether or not you want to undertake the journey."

Her breathing was hitching. Her hands were trembling. Could she really be becoming someone else, and losing who she was?

"Hn. Even you are afraid? Perhaps I have underestimated this spectre of death."

She didn't hear the words; only the flickers of warmth in his voice. Later, she would remember them as comforting, even tender. But at that time, she could only think that his voice was as warm as blood from a fresh-cut wound.

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A/N: To all those who were expecting a cheerful New Year's Eve chapter, you've fallen victim to one of my little twists. Regardless, I hope everyone has a happy new year, full of everything your heart desires (tea and butter cookies, in my case.)


	79. Diary II

A/N: This prompt is from kitty materia princess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy VII. (There, out of the way for another year. Now I can go back to gently mocking the whole legal profession.)

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_Yuffie Kisaragi Observation Journal_

9:15. Both woke up. Yuffie slept starfish shaped again, and had put her hand over my mouth in the middle of the night. Alleged reason: I snore. Defence: I do not.

10:00. Went downstairs to get breakfast after dressing. Yuffie admonished me for taking forever to get ready. Attempted joke on gender role reversal, but unsuccessful: 'You're a girl anyway, Vince.' When leaving the table, observed Yuffie pocketing a jar of raspberry jam. Am worried by this development.

10:45. Finished cleaning Shinra Mansion's drapes of dust (!) and went down to the foyer. Found Yuffie incorporating jam into some form of trap for the newspaper boy. Accidentally set off trap as she was working on it, causing minor jam explosion and major damage to clothes & hair. Am full of remorse.

11:30. Still on bad terms with Yuffie. Attempted to placate her with vanilla ice cream. Did not end well.

12:00. Due to my ridiculous efforts to fob Awesome Ninja Yuffie off with some ice cream straight from our own goddamn freezer, I ended up with a ton of something cold, white and sticky in my stupid fluffy hair. Whilst I took a hundred years in the shower, I did not notice her sneak in, steal my book and vanish. This means that she has seen my so-called Yuffie observation journal in which I've been recording her every move like some kind of paedo. Because of this, I allowed her to go upstairs, steal my wallet and buy five thousand gils worth of luxury strawberry gateaux, to be delivered within the hour. Note to self: avoid the jam trap, which has been moved outside the bathroom.

12:30. Did not avoid the jam trap. Have just recovered my journal, and am pondering what to do with five thousand gils worth of strawberry gateaux.

12:45. Took another shower. Yuffie attempted to sneak in again and forgot about the jam trap. Am now being blamed for further major damage to clothes & hair.

15:50. Gateaux arrives. Not only is it unwanted, but late as well. Highly irritated. However, have taken preventative measures by hiding all the cutlery.

16:00. New discovery. Yuffie does not need cutlery to eat gateaux.

17:00. Yuffie went back to the bathroom to wash her face, and forgot about the jam trap again. Spent the last hour with her dismantling it. Anticipating laundry bill will be higher than average this month.

20:00. Took a late dinner with Yuffie. Had gateaux for dessert. Am already sick of it. Must remember to stock up on jam.

22:00. Yuffie came to bed. She had washed her hair in new shampoo I bought her. Smells delicious, if slightly of jam. Am prepared to count this as a good day, and hopeful for another tomorrow.

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A/N: A normal day is too much to ask for sometimes. Here's to the first update of the new year; it was, in an odd coincidence, a continuation of the first update of the last one.


	80. Bandana

A/N: A little bit late in the day (I overslept), so it's drabble time. Luckily, this is one of my own prompts.

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Disclaimer: If you think the world is gonna end in 2012, good news: it's unlikely they'll have enough time to file lawsuits if you time it right. The rest of us still have to live with, y'know, responsibility.

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He has a bandana. So does she.

She wears hers to improve her focus in battle. The sweat collects underneath, but it gives her a point on her forehead, obscured by cloth, that she can put her mind.

He wears his for the same reason he wears his leather and belts. It's one more binding, one more restraint on the beast within. It hides away the skin and makes him seem less human, less fragile, less likely to break under his own duress.

Really, it hardly matters. Those two pieces of cloth are just one similarity that ties them together.

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A/N: Sorry about the shortness. One of the reasons I chose this prompt is because I'm quite fond of a bandana myself; I typically wear mine cowboy style, though. I mean to do more drabbles, but somehow never get around to doing it in this collection...Oh well. (Technically, I think bandana can be spelt with two n's as well; however, I'm using the single n spelling as it seems more common.)


	81. Frozen In Love

A/N: This one was late in the day too, due to truly massive exhaustion. (I was dithering over whether to have a 75 chapter special, but nah.) Prompt's by Aagwa.

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Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy. But if I did, Vincent's double jump would actually DO something.

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It seemed a hundred years and more since he allowed Yuffie to talk him into the ill fated decision of trying to snowboard in the glacier town. It had started off innocently enough. A little falling over, perhaps, some minor jumps over small lumps of snow, but from there things had quickly gotten out of hand. Yuffie had realised, quite suddenly and with no warning, that snowboards were a moving vehicle. And moving vehicles made her very sick indeed.

As she tried to avoid ruining the town's fresh white snow with her less-than-fresh lunch, she was too distracted to realise she was sliding, slowly at first but gradually gathering speed, down the slope that lead to the mountain. He, returning from a coffee purchasing expedition with too steaming cups in hand, saw her too late. He tried to bark a warning, but amongst the snow-filled shouts of the children, his dusky voice simply wouldn't carry far enough.

The first inkling Yuffie had that something was very, very wrong indeed was Vincent coming towards her on a snowboard- fast.

Then she hit the rock.

Pain, real as frostbite, shot through the back of her leg, and suddenly her sickness took a backseat. She was falling. Down a mountain. On a snowboard. With a newly injured leg.

"Gawd."

Neither of them could fight the gradient long enough to get off and walk back to the village. The only solution was to ride, and ride well. Vincent controlled his speed so he could hover behind her like a shadow, watching like a hawk for any possible mistake as they rocketed downwards. Obstacles she narrowly missed seemed to curve and bend out of his way, and more than a few times she spotted him firing to disperse unnatural formations of snowmen.

But, they got through. They made it to the end, without injuring themselves further. Unfortunately, at the end of the slope was a cliff. And, like they had done years before, they shot right off the end of it.

-Pyjamas-

She woke up and immediately knew it was bad. She knew it was bad because Vincent was leaning over her. She could smell the musk of his cloak before she even opened her eyes. She felt his fingers brush lightly over her forehead, lifting away a wayward strand before feeling for her temperature. Whatever it was, it made him 'hn'.

They were in a cave, she found when she finally found the strength to lift her head. A fire roared in the entrance, stocked with wood that Vincent periodically went out to fetch. It smelt of monster flesh, and she realised he'd been cooking.

"Well, at least you don't have to go it alone now. I'll help with that kinda thing. I mean, you'd probably get all lonely and emotional out there, maybe try and jump through the ice and drown yourself," she joked as she tried to get up.

"No. Absolutely not."

There was venom in it, and it stopped her mid-motion.

"What? Why?"

"Your leg. You landed on it."

She looked, and saw it had been bound with strips of red cloth. Vincent's cloak looked a little shorter than before, too. She suddenly felt the pressure on her leg, and felt sick when she thought what the cloth might be holding in. Had her bone snapped on impact, jutting from her thigh? Just how bad was it?

"How long was I out, Vince?"

"Three days. We landed in different places, and it took me a few hours to find you," he said. There was a change in his voice, a strange kind of firmness that implied there was more to it.

"What happened?"

"It turns out that you already had an audience. A pack of snow wolves, quite in thrall to the smell of meat. Don't ask what we're eating tonight," he smiled dourly. Black humour was the only kind he understood.

"You're going out there?"

"Of course. You need your leg to heal, and for that you'll need food and sleep. I'll make sure you get them."

Offering to hunt was bad enough. But voulenteering himself for the eternal night shift? She got the feeling things were far, far worse than she could think. Her head felt muggy somehow, probably from the smell of the fire or the cold or the impact or a little from all the columns.

"But...It's dangerous to go alone," she finally choked out pathetically through the fog of her mind.

"Yuffie," he said, turning towards her and giving her a smouldering glare, "I have already ridden down a mountain, shot off a cliff and scoured the frozen wastes for you. I think it no underestimation to say that I would die for you, if you asked it."

"Idiot," she called as he turned away and headed towards the mouth of the cave. "You got it the wrong way around."

He stopped, but didn't look back. He didn't see the tears that were forcing themselves from her eyes, stealing away down her cheeks with her dignity, like her from a jewellery store.

"You're supposed to _live_ for me, dolt. And don't you _dare_ forget it."

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A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know. This is below my usual standards. I'm sorry, but like I said, massive exhaustion won the day. I might redo it later.


	82. Hell In A Hand Basket

A/N: This prompt was from Circle of Phoenix. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Surprisingly, I get no money for this. If I did, I could perhaps afford to eat lunch.

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She doesn't like the phrase 'hell in a hand-basket'. Hand-baskets actually sound pretty comfy, and Hell sounds way too big to fit in one. And is it her, or are hand baskets the least threatening thing in the entire world? Even _hamsters_ can give you a nasty bite. Hand baskets can't even do that. Hell in a hand-_grenade_ would be better, but hand grenades are already taken as a method of divine conveyance.

Hell in a Materia would be fun, though. The Black Materia was pretty damn scary, but it didn't really fit the description of 'Hell', and they have a Holy materia, so naturally it must be balanced out. Maybe Hades? But he was a wimp, to be honest. Bahamut ZERO would have owned him six ways in seven directions.

Of course, then there's the theory that Hell is a subjective thing. Like, the worst thing in the world for that particular person, infinitely, and in a way you can never get used to. That's pretty scary, actually. She wouldn't like to have to try to make Vincent talk like a normal person for a million billion years.

Of course, all of the above is wrong, she notes. They know _exactly_ what happens when you die, and it involves your conciousness being recycled, like a newspaper with all the experiences of your life on it. Stands to reason, then, that Hell must be having your conciousness made into mako, to stagnate and destroy the planet it should be fuelling.

All she really knows about Hell is this:

If Vincent ever tries to ration her chocolate again, he'll be going straight to it. With aching kidneys and some _severely_ rearranged lungs.

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A/N: Yeah, this didn't make the two day deadline in my country (in the Americas, I get another four/five hours to play with, so it's technically on time there) because the Internet mysteriously up and broke. Plainly, a wizard did it. However, it was _written_ before the deadline, so, y'know. Just ignore the blip. Also, I'm aware that I'm behind on replying to my messages; I'm going to have a big message-replying session tomorrow.


	83. Super Effective

A/N: This prompt goes to SragonZ. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: No animals were hurt in the making of this fanfiction, apart from Red XIII (but only very occasionally).

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It seems that, in his time away, technology has advanced so much as to make it the mere plaything of the rich and idle. As Princess of Wutai, 'rich' and 'idle' are two social groups Yuffie can slot herself into quite nicely, thank you. The end result is her, lounging backwards over the bannister at the top of the stairs, a handheld games console upside down in her hand.

The latest trendy game she's enraptured by seems to involve capturing monsters and forcing them to battle for no particularly good reason. In human terms, it was called 'slavery', but when the creatures were smaller and cuddlier, it was 'good family fun'. Quite odd.

However, there is a coincidence somewhat odder than that. After literally weeks of wheedling, pleading, prodding and bribing, Yuffie finally managed to get him to play her little game (by attempting to drop her shorts in public, no less. She even showed him the panties she would have worn to do it- lacey, with teddy bears. Her philosophy: if you're going to threaten and/or drop your pants, you may as well do it _right._)

She had been looking forwards to an afternoon of his puzzled grunts (sounds she laughs at, and inwardly relishes because they're just _so_ typical of him that she couldn't imagine him without them), but quickly found that the manipulation of buttons was not, strangely, beyond him. Worse yet, as his creature literally shot up the levels, she came to a shocking realisation: _he was better at it than she was!_

"Patience, Yuffie, is required for this form of pursuit, as well as strategy. I have both in a greater measure than you, so it is not so very surprising that I do better," he lectured, feeling, no doubt, that he'd finally found a modern pursuit in which he was her equal- no, her better.

"But how d'ya kill them so quick?" she asked, innocently.

"Simple. You pick the attack to which they are weakest," he replied, so quietly pleased with himself that he missed the dangerous tone in her voice; for, in no circumstances, is Yuffie Kisaragi _ever_ innocent.

The next thing he knew, he was doubled over and in great pain. His kidneys had almost exploded, and as he dropped the console to cradle his stomach, it fell handily into Yuffie's palm.

She looked at him and said, with a shark's grin:

"Mega Punch. It was _super effective_."

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A/N: Admittedly, that came from an in-joke with me and my friends. Despite being normal type, Mega Punch is _always_ super effective, and don't you forget it!


	84. Examination

A/N: This prompt was from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Square's lawyers may have an abnormally high Sue stat. But I have a good 45 points in Flee-The-Country, 60 in Plead-Insanity and 39 in Internetz. (I also have 79 in Nerd, but that doesn't help...)

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For the first time since she got hung by her ankles from the Da-Choa and her organs all seemed to fall out of their sockets and rattle around in her ears, her heart is in her throat. She took him to meet her dad, but she's already met all of his family. Except for one: his long-lost ex.

The first thing she notices, with a stab, is the beauty. Radiant crystal illuminates them, casting unearthly glows that are like the shadows of shadows. Guiltily, she realises just how easy it would have been for him to spend all that time there, falling under the spell of that tranquil glow.

_She's_ beautiful, too. A serene, mature face, frozen in eternal youth and never-ending imprisonment. She almost thinks (it must be the glow, messing with her eyes) that a single tear hovers, suspended in crystal, over her cheek. So quiet, and so deep. Just like him.

"Lucrecia...What do you think?" he asks, an almost painful rasp creeping into his voice.

Nothing happens. No magical light display, no signal that she can hear him. Gently, he folds himself to the ground and sits. She follows, folding her legs beneath her knees and kneeling, even though she wouldn't show that kind of respect to her own father.

Time passes. Years seem to tick away. The longer she sits, the more _trapped_ she feels, the more convinced she is that she can't leave. Perhaps he didn't stay so long because he wanted to, but because he simply couldn't leave? The blood prickles in her calves and demands movement, noise, life.

"I see," he says, finally. Gracefully, he sweeps himself up and begins to walk away. He brushes his hand against her shoulder and she feels herself ache.

"What did she say? Did I pass?" she asks, away from the enchanted air of that place. Her voice seems to explode from her chest, and was she always that loud?

He turns, his eyes shrouded and yet searching at the same time. He hesitates, but says, "No. Absolutely not."

Her heart, all the way in her throat, rattles around from the blow. Maybe the most important test she's ever had, and she failed. If it were only something she could do herself, some test of wit or strength, she'd feel better, but it's abitrary, a judgement handed down from on-high by a frozen crystal girl who she can't bribe, coax, beg-

"W-why not?" she squeezes out. The words didn't quite get past her heart and come out muffled and strained.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Although, if I were to hazard a guess..."

"What?"

"...Jealousy."

It's so unexpected she laughs. She can't quite cram it back in in time, and it comes out as a snort which is even _worse _when she's supposed to be talkingseriously about stuff that could change her life-

"You're full of life, Yuffie, and she cannot be," he says, gently. "I think she perhaps envies you for that. I should also remind you that it is now you, and not her, who lays claim to my attention and my company."

She can almost taste all the weird emotions going through her, sweet relief next to mild embarrassment and an almost coppery sensation of sympathy and regret. She didn't _mean _to steal him away. Not really.

"Although, I think some of her envy may have been directed at your legs," he says awkwardly.

She doesn't know if he's being truthful or making a pass (bless him), but it doesn't really matter so much. She might not have met Lucrecia's criteria, but she's passed Vincent's test, and that's worth so much more.

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A/N: Just to say, good luck to anyone who's taking exams or has taken exams and are waiting for results. My heart goes out to you. Just chill out, get some rest and some coffee, and hit 'em at your best.


	85. Name On A Bullet

A/N: Another one of my little thingies. This'll be a little AU.

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Another Musical Disclaimer: You had something to hide. You should have hidden it, shouldn't you? (Yup, the fact that I don't have copyright usage. But I just _had_ to go and say it all over the internet, didn't I?)

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He lived a wanderer's life, always searching for something that he couldn't name and couldn't know. Dust scoured his skin, rain battered his frame and all seven hells froze over to make his journey a little less comfortable. There wasn't a wary eye he hadn't seen, at one time or another, peering out of the shutters like spectators at a zoo when he walked into town.

He fell into his habits, despite the lack of a place to settle down or call home. Whiskey on the rocks, and a half-hour in the local bar were his greatest. He would watch ruddy faces contort with artificial joy or enhanced pain. Another sip of whiskey, and perhaps an observation of a game of darts. The names and sounds floated through his mind, splintering and echoing until they no longer had any meaning but were the very picture of invisible beauty.

To settle down was the one thing he couldn't turn his formidable talents to. It was all too easy, and there lay the difficulty; without a boulder to push, there was little sake in climbing the hill. To attempt something with so little resistance left him nothing to push against, an unsatisfying simulacrum of a normal life that terrified him more than the yearning emptiness that held him in thrall. But the road would call to him, a hollowing enchantment that promised strife and uncertainty, and he found himself bracing for the challenge.

He fought, bitterly. Too many men made an enemy of him. He had no enemies. Only victims. They fell away into the abyss so easily, like the trappings of the life he had once known long ago. The first time, he'd been horrified. He hadn't meant to take a life. But as he wandered ever erstwhile, and the stars danced like dust motes in the passing of years, the feeling became one of numbness, and sometimes only the sharp recoil of his gun could provide any feeling at all.

Whatever his quarry was, it outran him. No matter how many times he crossed the globe, the wind curling his cloak around his chest, he could never even catch a glimpse. At times, he thought it was redemption he chased. In his very brightest moments, in the haze when he passed from sleep to the waking world, he believed it was enlightenment he hunted. And sometimes, he thought it was death he was seeking.

He could not have known what the fates had in store for him.

No human knowledge, no matter how wizened or sage, could have told him that he was, in fact, seeking two mutually exclusive things, and that if he found one he could not have the other. He may have realised that he could not find them, but could not have known that it was because they did not yet exist- that his searching was, in fact, waiting.

One of those things was a woman who was not quite yet a woman, who would grow to be vivacious even as she was fierce. She would grow to become his equal, a force that no amount of his talent or Herculean strength could tame, a never-ending foil that would take all his energy and throw it back at him each and every day. She would dance through his best laid plans like the stars had danced across the sky, and he would find sweet purpose in a fruitless but fulfilling quest to understand her.

The second thing he sought was a bullet with his name on it.

It was all a matter of which he found first.

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A/N: Well, _I _liked it, even if it was only for the images in the narrative. It's a quieter change to the usual jokes.


	86. Failure

A/N: This prompt was from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Few things bore me more than copyright laws. Those few things include the growth processes of fungi, feminism and people who honestly believe that spraying every single surface with disinfectant will _actually_ stop them catching diseases.

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Despite herself, she had long accepted that she couldn't win them all. But she hadn't expected it to get this bad. She wasn't even breaking even, for crying out loud, and she was swiftly running out of gil.

"I can't believe it, Vince. I've failed. My life is ruined," she wailed, after her purse was empty.

He looked at her, then at her nemesis. "Melodramatic."

"Oh, shut up. Can't you do it?"

Silently, he took up the gauntlet. He turned out to be talented. Not just talented, but formidable. Not only did he break even, but he won, ninety times out of a hundred. She'd lost five thousand gil, and had no choice but to wait, seething, as he won it all back.

"How? How the hell did you do that?" she hissed as he gave her her purse back. "It's not _right_. It's black magic, and I don't trust you or it."

"You're correct. The machine is rigged," he said. "Although, the question remains: if you knew it was rigged, then _why_ would you still put five-thousand gil into the grabber machine?"

"Shut up." Which roughly translated into 'Gawd, all I wanted was the stupid chocobo plushie'. "But honestly, how did you do it?"

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "I must admit that I base my strategies on your own, Yuffie. A clear mind, courage, and zen-like patience."

She threw him a glance. A glance which told him she was not very impressed.

"And, of course," he added sagely, "a healthy dose of cheating."

She gasped as he showed her a pair of pliers.

"I altered the machinations a little. Just to give even odds, of course," he smirked. "A Turk has to learn a great variety of...skills, when trying to keep afloat."

"A man after my own heart. Now," she grinned, "How about we hit the chocobo races?"

"Really, Yuffie. You don't learn."

"Nope. I never do," she grinned. "I guess I fail in the school of life, huh?"

"Like no one else, Yuffie. Like no one else."

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A/N: Slightly lame. Also, a small announcement: due to refurbishments to my house, I won't have internet for a week or so. I'll catch up on updates afterwards.


	87. Geek Chic

A/N: Well, here's the first of my catch ups, brought on by the fact that my house was being remodelled. It feels good to get back to some small semblance of normality, although now I'm really, really behind on everything...

Prompt's for TornAngelWings.

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Another Musical Disclaimer: Don't try to understand them, just rope 'em, throw 'em, brand 'em, soon we'll be livin' high and dry... (If only copyright law was as straight-forwards as cowherding!)

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He taps away gently at the keyboard, trying desperately to get through the mountain of paperwork Reeve's just dropped in his in-tray. It turns out that, actually, his decision to shoot the gas-tank of the escaping four-by-four last week was a bad decision, firstly because the resulting fireball only _gently _maimed the criminals, and secondly because the owner of the car would actually quite like the insurance back on it. As 'blown up when carjacked' was not expressly covered by the insurance company (go figure), claims have been made against the WRO, and Vincent, as the operative, is the one landed with them.

He leans forward unconsciously, not noticing the way the screen highlights the bags under his eyes with luminescent blue. He doesn't even notice the crumbs of cookies stuck under his w-key, a very strong piece of evidence suggesting Yuffie has been in the vicinity. He's even ignorant of the distinctive _clop-clop-clop_ of high heels striding towards Steve's desk.

"Hey. Haven't seen you around before." He hears it in one ear and immediately registers it. Unknown personnel on the floor. He almost moves to turn around, but the comforting weight of his handgun against his thigh reassures him.

"I _knoooow_," the interloper purrs. Female. Deep, almost seductive voice. "We should meet more often, handsome. I may be a chemist and not a biologist, but that won't stop me extracting a big sample of _your_ DNA."

His hand twitches involuntarily towards his gun. But he calms himself, and carries on working. Steve can handle it.

"Uh, uh...Well, um, that's, uh, very nice, erm, miss. What, aha, brings you here?"

On further reflection, it has become clear that Steve very clearly cannot handle it.

"I'm just here to warn ya, Stud. I've been doing chemical analysis of that cafeteria food you're shovelling down, and it's just _full_ of dihydrogen monoxide. I can hardly think of a worse chemical. Thousands of people die from ingesting it every year. It's virtually tasteless, has no smell, can be found in excised tumours, and can cause severe burns. Nasty stuff."

"Oh, I see! I'll tell Mr. Tuesti right away. He won't be happy to know his cafeteria food is poisonous!"

Vincent turns slowly around to see Steve retreating quickly and a girl in a lab coat stealing his muffin. She picks the crumbs off her fingers slowly, then brushes the remainder off the tight lemon sweater that hugs her frame oh-so-efficiently. Her glasses, cute ovals set against her face, have no glass in them. A short skirt and tied hair complete the effect, but not nearly so effectively as the pristine white coat.

"Oh, hey Vince," she says to him in her normal voice, a far cry from the seductive purr he now knows she's capable of. "Did you know you can just up and buy lab coats? Try it sometime."

"Hn. How many muffins have you stolen like that today, Yuffie?" he asks, casually.

"Three or four...crates."

He sighs. By the time Reeve realises what's been going on, he'd probably wish water _was_ poisonous.

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A/N: One! Time for the next.


	88. Hot Chocolate And Marshmallows

A/N: Time for the second. Prompt's from CossetteLune.

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Disclaimer: Warning! Objects in the rear-view mirror may be less endearingly fluffy in real life.

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They both live a life full of adventure. Rarely is there a weekend where they don't confront the very real possibility of stabby death and/or involuntary decommissioning on the battlefield.

So, it makes the more peaceful times even more precious. Like the times they can just settle in his red big armchair and share a cup of hot chocolate with a stupid amount of sugar and some whipped cream to her tastes, feeding each other marshmallows (until, of course, she upsets the cup in his lap.)

Because sometimes, the only way to go forwards is to sit back and relax.

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A/N: A drabble for your second of five. Next! (By the way, I almost invariably call it 'hot chocoblah'. Before you ask, there is absolutely no adequate explanation for this.)


	89. Do Vampires Dream Of Kleptomaniac Ninja?

A/N: This prompt's for Szahara again. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I still haven't gotten a lava lamp, a magic eight ball, a hammock, or, crucially, the rights to do this in a legal and profitable way.

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Yuffie has stolen a lot of things from him, most of them minor and a few major. The major ones include a full set of mastered materia, his car keys and, he's almost sure, his identity.

Vampire-Valentino. That's the name of the online hoaxer who's pretending to be him. Who updates his status on DeviantFace or LiveBook or whatever the hell it is. Who always lists his mood as 'gloomy' and who says his favourite drink is doormouse blood, who seems convinced that his favourite book is Cryogenics for Dummies and that he is hugely aroused by any song performed by a brass band.

It would be funny, if it weren't quite so scary. Identity was supposed to be a sacred thing, in his day. They had little sheets of plastic to prove it, and if they couldn't prove it they were refused access to any number of priviledges in the Shinra Building, with the bar and the vending machines being minor examples. It seems so absurd, so simply ridiculous that his whole persona is wrapped up in the imaginary tendrils of data that spiral golden in his mind and wrap themselves around him like a second invisible skin.

He stays awake at night, ruminating as seriously as he ever did, wondering whether his co-workers had seen if, whether they'd been taken in by the cybernetic ruse. Somehow, it was almost shameful, something that he had to carry around with him, a timebomb with the display disconnected. He didn't know when it would explode, or even if it would, and somehow that made it all the worse.

The very worst moments are the ones that can sneak up on him at any time, even when he's got a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth and he can feel the bitter scent chasing away the tiredness in his brain. He feels it catch, lurch, and suddenly he's falling and doubtful of himself and anything around him. What could provoke such a parodic portrayal of himself? The way he acts? Should he change? Stay the same and ignore it? Hold his head up? But how is he supposed to hold up a head with some many heavy questions inside it?

Eventually, he shakes it off. He is him. Nothing more than that, and he needs no spectral data ghost to clog up his life. The only solution is to get to the bottom of it, and he can think of no better prime suspect than Yuffie Kisaragi.

"What?" she asks innocently, when he tracks her down and advances, glowering. He notices her start to fluster as he barges into her personal space without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Vampire Valentino. You have something to do with it," he states. He doesn't _know_ that he's close enough for her to taste his body heat.

"No idea what you're talking about, Vinster. Honestly, no clue. I mean, I'm so busy kicking bad-guy ass that I hardly even have time to check my email anymore, never mind do weekly updates on some fake account," she whistles. He starts when he hears her quote an update speed, but realises that his phantom stalker updates every three days, not weekly. That little detail, along with her obvious discomfort, convinces him of her innocence. Apologising, he backs away.

That night, he lays in bed, thinking of the kleptomaniac ninja, and wonders why she came to mind as a culprit in the first place. He can only think that he's thinking about her too much, and suddenly she's plaguing his mind like a melody, floating around his head just out of his reach. He grunts and rolls over. Sleep usually helps these things.

* * *

As it turns out, things have gone well for her. She never expected operation Inter-Psyche to go _quite _ this well. She even got a whiff of premium brand Vincent-Valentine-doesn't-shave aftershave to boot. She can almost see him, tossing and turning and thinking of her, as she quietly deletes one of many alternate accounts.

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A/N: A little piece on e-stalking, I suppose. Next!


	90. Vocabulary

A/N: One of mine. On with the show!

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Disclaimer: Chill out, kick back. Don't worry about the little things. But fyi, copyright theft isn't a little thing, which is why I'm at gunpoint whilst I'm writing this.

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Love: noun. A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

And yet, no one ever mentions the sheer, unadulterated violence of the thing. Love, for all its connotations of fluffy bunnies and magical teddies with laser cannons mounted in their stomachs, feels like you've been smashed in the head with a nine-iron then smothered, slowly, with a pillow.

Love: verb. To have love or affection for another person; be in love.

To have love or affection or borderline obsession, because hell, no line is blurry enough that it can't be complicated with a catastrophe of a kiss that singes all the nerves off your lips and keeps you up at night.

Love: noun. Sexual intercourse; copulation.

Oh, if only. Certainly, love is a game but it's more like chess on steroids than role play in the bedroom. Every whispered nothing is a calculation, and if it doesn't all balance out then, well, don't pass go but you can still pick up your six months of emotional trauma and residual awkwardness if you really want it.

And yet.

There's something in her that makes her pursue it, bouncing from teenage crush to unreliable boyfriend, looking for the next violent explosion in her heart or her pants, whichever comes first, and throwing herself unreservedly into the centre. And whether it's love or lust or just depraved kinky sex, it's at least a difference from the steady drip-drip-drip of her lifeblood being drained by the duties of a Wutaian diplomat. And it seems every new conquest, big or small, restores her a little, but less and less each time. It's like she's being blitzed with medicine every time she nears death; what she really needs is some sort of romantic IV, if such a thing could possibly exist.

But then there's him. Vincey Vincent Vin Vin Valentine. Baron von Fluffy-hair, Captain Clown-shoes and when you really boil it down, the all-round Mister Unattainable because he has standards and hot damn, does he know it. And hell, maybe that's exactly the reason she falls out of nightclubs as much as she falls out of bed in the morning; maybe it's all to attract his attention and whet those stupid dry ass lips of his.

Maybe she's going about it the wrong way. Trying to get some unattainable goal for no good reason by pursing everyone and everything except the original goal? Novel approach. Honestly, she gets a good four and a half stars for ingenuity, five if she throws in a shot of whiskey. All she knows is that he's not going to explode in her heart or her pants or her face, but that's exactly why she wants him; to know, and to see. She wants to try something different, to really make a stab at this whole 'hold down a boyfriend and lead a normal life' schtick. And maybe zombo-tard with his creepy habits, weird fashion sense and unconventional morals can help with that.

Love: noun, verb, adjective, metaphor. Synonyms: 'Doomed from the start'.

But she still keeps going. Because defeat just ain't in her vocabulary.

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A/N: Hm. Something to reflect the confusion of youth in modern day life, I think. On balance, it might be best to become a baker. Soft, warm bread is underrated in this day and age. Am I talking nonsense? Quite possibly.


	91. Bloodsucker II

A/N: And the last instalment of my catch-up quintology also happens to be the promised "seriousface" vampire story, requested by Anzer'ke. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: In space, no one can hear George Lucas spank his fanbase with a length of rubber hose.

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Most folk would assume being a vampire is a bad thing. And, in some ways, it is. Daylight isn't the smartest thing to choose as your fatal vulnerability, and having to kill and move on without attracting attention is a hassle and a chore.

But there are good points. Case in point: wine. To secrete a casket of cheap wine under the earth near Kalm for a hundred years and still be around when it finally reaches maturity is a sweet sensation indeed. And although it's a blow to your humanity, there's something oddly enchanting about the snap of a neck, and the ability to experience it time and time again without shame or guilt until you've finally exercised the base part of yourself that desires murder and carnage and chaos.

And then, there's that rare bond that sometimes happens between predator and prey. A quivering tremble as the talons come out and the fangs break the skin, and the raw flavour of adrenaline and sex in the blood: ecstasy, unadulterated and pure. It's almost a pity they die, or they turn, and lose the desire for that intimacy, that surrender. It's strange, that it's necessary to turn to the fleeting ember of a human life to experience true rapture.

The moon is full tonight.

The trick is to do exactly what every little mortal tale says you should do. They tell you to assume the shape of a bat, and with a hefty chunk of transform materia and some vampire know-how it's certainly possible. That way, you can swoop towards your unassuming target, the figure silhouetted in the moonlit ring of trees, with no personal danger and get the first hit in. Beautiful hair, you note.

But should you have a little fun, first? Mortals are so very prone to hypnosis. Why not toy with their affections? How humiliating it would be, to send their pathetic little blood racing with a seductive growl and then drain every drop of it from their bodies. To die unsatisfied...A cruel and unusual torture.

But it seems this is one of those occasions where a mortal is a little more than they appear. That little flutter of your wings floats into their ears, and all the muscles fire in their arms. It happens. Some mortals are, after all, afraid of bats. So, drop down, into the trees, and use the shadows as your cloak and mantle. You don't need sight; you can hear every drop of life squeeze itself through their veins, and you know it's meant to be yours.

But oh dear. If there's anything humans know how to do, it's pull a surprise. Too many have slipped from your arms because of a sudden burst of strength or desperation, and this one looks like a fighter. A moment of tension, and they're gone, soaring across the ground like an arrow from a bow.

You have to give them credit. They really are trying their best, the helpless little thing, but passing up a free meal is against your philosophy so you streak along behind them at twice the speed without even breaking a threat. You close the gap effortlessly, swallowing the distance like a pint of AB negative, and with just a flick of your claws you'll put a stop to those blurring legs.

You're more than a little surprised when they turn, flick up their wrist, and all that goes through your mind is forty five millimetres of sterling silver than comes straight out of the other sound and drops, smoking, to the floor.

"Hn. Arrogant," the victim smiles, and you suddenly realise that this is no prey.

"'Snot arrogance until I lose," you slur. The bullet went straight through your brain and might have damaged a few of those old speech centres of yours. They'll heal, but hell does it sting.

"Vincent Valentine. Vampire hunter. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," he says, pistol levelled straight at your heart. "I'll be sure to attend your burial."

"Silver's for werewolves, mortal," you hiss. You should know. Half the plates you have are streling silver, looted from your old dad's mansion.

"I'm aware of that. However, my plan is to put so many bullets in your brain that you'll be too witless to struggle when I reach for the stake."

A second's hesitation. A skipped beat. And then, you retreat. That brain would could use some healing, and one of the benefits to being immortal is that you can afford to wait. The one thing you know is that he and you will be meeting again.

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A/N: And once again, the 'Vincent is a vamp' joke is subverted for my own amusement.


	92. How To Kill Time

A/N: This prompt is for Aagwa. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: Square Enix ain't got no pancake mix. (Points for anyone who has _any_ idea what I'm talking about.)

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Tick, tock. It's just one of the sounds he lost. He has forgotten the taste of coffee, and the sight of the sunrise. He has forgotten the feel of a bullet between his fingers.

Scratch. That's what he'll do. The sharp points on his gauntlet have long since been filed down to prevent the natural urge to rip and tear, but he can still scratch, gently eroding that tiny part of the world with a blunt but irresistible force.

Time. Time is what he needs to scratch away. He can't escape, so the only thing he can do is use the cursed immortality Chaos left him with and out-wait his captors. But it's so _painful_. He never realised how excruciating it was to just sit and let time flow away when he did it wilfully, but now that he has no choice in the matter he realises how slowly time crawls by. And as each second of his confinement passes, the unnamed and unconsidered dread of what he'll find when he's released increases.

Because, after all, the only problem with cursed immortality is that none of his friends are afflicted with it.

He worries, in fits of paranoia, that his hearing has been damaged by virtue of disuse. He no longer hears his captor's feet approaching with food. Of course, his hearing is the same as it ever was. In fact, the silence has tuned it to hypersensitivity; it is merely that his captors no longer bring food anyway.

In fact, they have brought no food for a long time. In his stasis, he has not realised. He does not remember things as well as he used to, because there are memories he is not yet ready to deal with. Perhaps never will be.

"_Cloud, we can't. I mean, how could we do that? To him?"_

"_It might help. Some quiet, to sort his head out."_

"_It didn't help him the last time he lost a woman he loved."_

"_He's stronger now, Teef. Besides, none of us can help him. We just don't have that ability."_

"_Stronger? I wonder. Lucrecia didn't die, Cloud. Yuffie's not coming back."_

"_..."_

"_But, I guess you're right...Time heals all wounds, I guess, and there isn't much we can do for him."_

"_...Stupid Yuffie. She couldn't have gotten herself into anything we could help out with, could she? Had to be cancer..."_

The voices occasionally echo. The conversation is incomplete. He wasn't fully cognisant at the time.

Time crawls slowly forwards, but he remains still. No one to fight, and no one to fight with, he simply lost one woman too many to the relentless march of fate. He doesn't realise that, like Yuffie, his captors returned to the lifestream long ago.

So he waits, killing time in the hollowed husk of his mental asylum.

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A/N: In a little bit of a rush; I was going for something a little bit more sombre.


	93. Loss

A/N: This prompt goes out to Lethe Erisdottir. Thanks! (I forgot if there was anything else to the prompt other than the word, and had to trawl through 15 pages of reviews to find it. Now, I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. All I know is that the prompt came from a PM and I lost half an hour of my life for no reason.)

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Disclaimer: My Legal Special Attacks, part one. Bemuse the court by claiming to belong to a made-up religion. Coincidently, my sect believes one day, at least 20 years ago, Buddha decided that he wanted to trip out on some awesome rice puddin'. So, he got all the good things in the world- like ice cream, and monster trucks- and all the bad things in the world- like the electric car and the ghost of Frank Sinatra- and he put them all in a big pot. Then, he took a break to go and belly-bounce Zeus. To be continued...

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The atoms are singing to themselves, all vibrating at once so that the world shakes itself apart. Everything seems to loosen, to magnify, and suddenly he can see the holes in everything and everything has holes, from the walls to the chairs to his hand, and he puts his hand out to steady himself but he remembers that nothing's solid, everything's full of holes, and the moment he reaches out his hand to touch something both will explode into a fine mist of what could have been.

And the worst thing is that he has no name for what he's feeling. He doesn't even know if he's feeling it at all, whether he's too emotionally dense to pick it up or whether it's just too huge for his feelings to cope with, so huge there's no end and no beginning, just a humming buzz of uncertainty. It's not like anything he's felt or not felt before, like the long days that seemed to fold themselves effortlessly into weeks and years as if they were paper cranes hanging in the void. Instinctively, he feels it as an end; the end of his zen stone in a pool ripples, the end of the days when he would wait and react, foreseeing every move on the board of fate with burning lucidity. It's the beginning of a new him, a creature of fingernails and edges and clinging, desperately, to any bastion of strength whilst pretending desperately he's okay.

"...So, uh, yeah. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I've moved on. How're you, Vincent?" she asks, Reno's arm curled possessively around her waist, just as she likes it. Her voice floats to him, borne by nothing man has a name for.

And, as if at her command, the atoms convalesce and knit like scars, holding together but not quite as safely as before. The world makes sense again, but he cannot un-see the way the world was in those few seconds. It, and he, are irrevocably changed; like wood burnt black to charcoal, it is a process that cannot be undone.

"...I'm fine, Yuffie. I'm fine," he says, not because he is but because he knows that the rest of his long life will be spent looking, feverishly, for words he knows do not exist and which he desperately needs to tell her how he truly feels. He turns to walk away, and sees the haunting atoms shimmering in his wake.

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A/N: Yes; it was an excuse to do another one of _those_ types of chapters. I'm still perfecting the technique, I suppose. On a side note, this is prompt 88; the prompt was Loss, and eight is the number said to signify infinity. Draw your own conclusions.


	94. Cliché

A/N: This prompt goes out to Alamorn. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: My Legal Special Attacks, part two...When he returned, there was utter chaos, because Optimus Prime and Heath Ledger had come back in time. Optimus Prime said to Buddha, 'YOU HAVE DISGRACED MY PEOPLE. NOW WE MUST DO BATTLE.' So they got out their lightsabers and started to duel. Meanwhile, Heath Ledger ran to the pot, rickrolled Zeus and ejaculated into the primordial ooze. Then he died, because of the Ghostbusters.

(I am perfectly aware that, if anything, this disclaimer is less legal and more offensive than anything I could have possibly done in the actual story.)

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'Love at first sight'. It's a trail-worn, time tested cliché of the highest calibre, but somehow, Yuffie Kisaragi practices it with rigorous discipline. In fact, she's got it so bad it might just be a disease, like Kisaragi-itis, and all she knows is that it ain't contagious but it damn well ought to be. It would fix a lot of the ills of the world. ("Y'know what would have saved us having a huge war? Sephiroth falling in love with Cloud. No joke." "...Well, Yuffie, that'd be nice, but I have designs on Cloud at the moment, so I'd still punt Sephiroth off the edge of the reactor.")

So, inevitably, it falls to her to make a cure to this disease. She's tried a couple of things, mainly including ill-fated materia combinations and a new range of perfumes, but nothing works. So, she hit upon her current idea.

Gratuitous kidnapping.

It's a wonderful idea. Cupid can stand there and pepper her with bullets from his dual wielded uzis, but it doesn't matter when she can just take the object of her affection home, toss them into a dark room and enjoy them for a couple of hours until the effects wear off. And it's not like she has any regrets about doing it- she's a bitchin' ninja, after all, and this is what ninja do. Plus, they all seem to enjoy it anyway.

She's just in the middle of an impromptu kidnapping when He Of The Leather Pantaloons rears his fluffy black head.

"Yuffie. What exactly are you doing?" he asks, in a way that suggests he could be anywhere from miffed to murderous on the angry scale.

"I'm sorry. Does your old-people vision blind you to the obvious?" she retorts, because she's caught and she knows it.

"You _appear_ to be stealing Cloud's coat. Far be it for me to lecture you on the matter, but I believe this is not optimal party behaviour," he said in his usual pedantic way.

"Aw, but this coat is just..._love!_" she grinned, holding the sleeve out.

"Yuffie, I must insist you rejoin the festivities, preferably _without_ appropriating Cloud's favourite article of clothing," he said, reaching out a hand for her shoulder. She whirled to face him, looking him in the eye with a steely glare. He looked taken aback.

Which was all she needed to trigger the net-trap she'd set up on the ceiling.

As he thrashed around in the net, she quickly deployed Cloud's coat, tying it tight around his arms whilst he was still under the netting. He snarled when he realised her trick. He would have broken through ordinary ropes in the blink of an eye, but he wasn't willing to endanger that incredibly fragile social life of his by ripping Cloud's premier togs to tiny emo-scented shreds.

"Yuffie Kisaragi," he spat, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Put it this way, Vince," she said with a cat's smile, "You're going to find the next forty eight hours _very_ interesting."

Love at first sight. Generally improved with the addition of light bondage.

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A/N: No excuses with this one. Although, I bet a lot of people thought the kidnapping would _just_ be an analogue for Yuffie's kleptomania, huh?


	95. Very Nearly

A/N: This is one of my own prompts- and the ninetieth official prompt. We're getting close to that ever elusive hundred! Enjoy.

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Disclaimer: My Legal Special Attacks, Final Part...

Just when Optimus Prime thought he had the upper hand, and was about to use his Sith Lightning, Buddha got angry, and went SUPER SAIYAJIN 15. Then, he used MEGA PUNCH, which was super effective! He was about to throw his master ball when a Wild Raptor Jesus appeared! Raptor Jesus looked at what he saw and was angry. And so he said...'OBJECTION! Hammertime!' This caused the entire universe to divide by zero and WTF BOOM.

Only two things survived the explosion. The Lie-Cake, and Gary Nueman. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: welcome to the internet. (Incidentally, this defence was rejected in a court of law. Reason: Needs more cowbell.)

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They say that there are some mountains man was not meant to climb.

Among those mountains is the Super Chocolate Fudge Cookie Deluxe Ice Cream Ultimate Peak, if the advertising is to be believed.

Yuffie Kisaragi has seen the adverts. And is quite sure she is not a man. To her, it sounds like a challenge. And never mind the fact that it is basically diabetes on a plate.

"We've only ever known one guy to finish this whole thing. He asked me not to reveal his name; all I can say is that, truly, he was a man of steel," the waiter smiles when Yuffie inquires about the fabled dessert. She waves the information away as trivial, and demands that the waiter Super Chocolate Fudge Cookie Deluxe Ice Cream Ultimate Peak her immediately. As even the most dedicated lout couldn't make an innuendo out of that statement, the waiter merely smiles and says, "I'm sorry, Miss Kisaragi, but we demand payment up front for the Cee-Ef-Cee-Dee-Eye-Cee-You-Pee. And sadly, our premier dessert commands a premier price: 5000 gil."

Her brow furrows. Vincent would _not_ be pleased with that expenditure, even though she has a completely legit and pressing reason. But then she smiles, casts away her morals in favour of sugary goodness, and pulls out a credit card registered to one Reeve Tuesti. She enters the PIN flawlessly, and feels only a slight stab of guilt as the waiter bows away and tells the ice-cream chef to steel himself.

A full thirty minutes of Yuffie tapping her fingers later, it arrives, borne by two men and with a fanfare only a king among ice-cream treats could command. They lower it referentially to the table, the sugary treat spilling over the edges of a plate wider than her and stacked almost as tall as he is.

"Oh, baby," she whispers, as the full consequences of her actions hit her.

But, if there's ever been a ninja art she specialised in, it was transporting ice-cream directly to the mouth with the shortest possible transit time. The whole restaurant seems to be watching her as she takes up her spoon- and attacks the mountain with unadulterated fury.

But, the mass just doesn't seem to diminish. No matter how she shovels or how much ice-cream she accidentally slops down her brand new shirt, she doesn't seem to get anywhere. Her fury reaches melting point, and the audience gasps as blue fire envelops her hands. Determined not to be defeated, she channels Doom Of The Living into her spoon. Ice cream flies everywhere like blood from a wounded beast, but the first pang in her stomach signals the inevitable.

With a quarter of the the ice cream left, her spoon drops from her hand.

After the ice cream headache has well and truly subsided, she marches home. She feels off balance, sluggish, and tired. Her entire body quakes and shivers from the arctic wasteland that was once her stomach. Exhausted, she pushes open the door- to find her worst nightmare.

"Ah, Yuffie. You're a little late for our movie night," Vincent says, a bowl of neopolitan in balanced on his lap. "I've re-stocked the freezer, of course."

His eyes widen when he sees the aggression in her movements, but he's too late. Before he can do anything, she's plunged his face into the ice cream and stomped up the stairs. He wonders for a second what _exactly_ the matter is, but after a few moments of head scratching, decides that washing the ice cream from his hair is probably a greater priority.

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A few days later, the only man ever to finish the Super Chocolate Fudge Cookie Deluxe Ice Cream Ultimate Peak strides into his office and picks up the morning newspaper, pausing for only a second to wonder why he even _has_ a morning newspaper. And then he realises that his face is plastered all over the cover.

_Reeve Tuesti wastes WRO funding on luxury ice cream meals_, the paper cries. _The WRO commander has reportedly eaten not one, but two of the gut-busting specials..._

He scratches his beard thoughtfully. He remembers the first one, but the second? Maybe he's been sleepwalking.

And to think. He very nearly got away with it.

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A/N: So, all in all, no one wins. Except the waiter.


	96. Always A Bridesmaid

A/N: This prompt goes out to Lethe Erisdottir. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Because nothing says 'lawsuit' like urinating in Yoichi Wada's plant pots.

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There are a great many interesting and highly educational ways to reserve yourself a spot in prison. Throwing haddock into the mayor's fireplace. Replacing the reel for the Carebear movie with Saw II in the local cinema. Calling Reeve a panty-sniffing she-man on live television. But of the many possibilities, kidnapping two of your best friends and forcing them into an arranged marriage is possibly the most memorable.

Of course, when the couple in question are Tifa and Cloud, there are a few difficulties.

Step one: Drop a smoke bomb on Cloud's ass. Then make with the chloroform before he knows what's going on. Don't skimp on the ol' sleep juice, either, because he's a hardened Tranq addict and it takes more than a whiff to put him down.

Step Two: Drag Cloud's ass to your hideout, which hopefully you have prepared. Note: hideout is NOT a synonym of 'random dumpster in the park.' Whatever your hideout may be, dump him in there, and try not to get banana peels on that winsome coat of his.

Step Three: Tifa. Seeing as an estimated three kajillion people saw you dragging Cloud's drugged up keyster through the park to the dumpst- hideout, dammit, hideout, word's gonna get around, and Tifa will eventually click into Hunt And Destroy mode. This is a good thing, because she will come to you, thereby eliminating tiresome legwork. After she finds you, it's only a matter of battling and subduing the world's most dangerous woman (not counting you, of course.) Good luck with that.

Step Four: If you survive Step Three, drag Tifa back to the hideout. Try not to drop her in too carelessly; it'd be a shame to get gone-off cat food over that leather skirt of hers.

Step Five: Light bondage. Mmm, refreshing.

Step Six: With Cloud and Tifa hog-tied, drag them to the church. You probably didn't succeed in avoiding the cat food, so try not to track it down the aisle.

Step Seven: Draft in some patsies, aka friends. Cait Sith once said he was a preacher, so go and capture Reeve's rump and drag it back to the church. Shouldn't take too long, you're used to sneaking in and out of his office.

Step Eight: Listen to Reeve whine after you bring him back to the church. "Yuffie," he'll say in that vaguely apologetic voice, "I may be the leader of the WRO, but I'm not clergyman." The best defence to this argument is to shake your shuriken at him threateningly. Job done.

Step Nine: With Reeve coerced, there is only one person in the entire world who can stop you and has the motivation to do so. His name is Vincent Valentine. You live with the guy, remember? You'll have to do something about him. Goodness knows what.

Step Ten: After you've done something about Vincent Valentine, he'll hopefully be on your side. He's probably up for promoting true love and that kinda stuff. Bet he reads girly romance novels on the sly, too. He'll make a great witness to the bonds of marital bliss.

Step Eleven: Now that you have Vincent Valentine on your side, there is only one person in the entire world who can stop you and has the motivation to do so. His name is Vincent Valentine. In a tuxedo. Wait, what?

Step Twelve: Oh baby. Scoop your jaw off the ground, Kisaragi, we've got work to do. Start by observing quite how fine his threads are, and ask where he got them. Especially that crisp, white shirt. Gawd, it's a good shirt. Really highlights his chest. You've seen him in the shower with water droplets running down between his pecs, but you never realised quite how good that chest is. Is it just the shirt, or is he really that hot? Better check. Tell him the shirt doesn't fit, so he takes it off.

Step Thirteen: Whilst he's taking his shirt off, drop your togs and start climbing into your bridesmaid dress. I know, seems a little weird to be putting the clothes back _on_ again, but trust me on this. Show some leg whilst you're at it.

Step Fourteen: Get about halfway through putting on your bridesmaid outfit, then pause and look at his expression. He's never seen you in a dress before, and he likes it. A lot. Go over and put your hand on his chest. Mutter something dirty in Wutaian, too.

Step Fifteen: Get _very_ distracted.

Step Sixteen: Hey, wasn't there supposed to be a wedding somewhere down the line? Oh well. Doesn't matter. You've got a full hour before Cloud and Tifa wake up and work their way through the ropes. That's more than enough time to finish up and start running.

Mission accomplished.

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A/N: Purely for all the fangirls out there. Also, didn't really know what to do with this prompt (never really attended many weddings, and I was always pageboy anyway.) I did, of course, miss out steps seventeen and eighteen: ? and PROFIT!


	97. Showdown

A/N: This prompt goes to kaito142. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Luke, I am your father, but if you ever steal my bit I'm going to set Intergalactic Judge Judy on your ass.

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For a moment the entire universe is focused and white-hot in his eyes. Never attack until you see the whites of their eyes, they say, but she fears his gaze will make them burn up on impact, smattering against him like a cloud of dust. He moves, she moves, a constant blur of action and reaction that might just have been perpetual if one of them didn't have to die.

The metal of her shuriken seems to stick to her hand as she throws it. Her palms are sweating, and it reminds her vividly of the first time she ever held one in anger, the first time she ever needed to cut, to drive, to realise that the blood didn't actually worry her and that she was flying, not fighting. It was the first time she'd realised, _this is what I was meant to do_, and only later did she question the inborn instinct that made her maim and tear.

Closer, closer. Her legs are moving by themselves now. It's not like she can control herself- just point herself in the right direction like a firework and hope she explodes in the right place at the right time. So far, she always has, and never mind the people that have to put her back together when she's spent, when she shivers and screams the names of people she stole from the world.

Vincent's movements betray nothing. They're fleeting shadows, mere fragments of the processes going on in his head. He hides it all, motion, emotion, everything she wants from him so badly. And if she can find his heart she'll tear it out looking for those phantom feelings, but he keeps it wrapped under leather and mantle and iron will.

"Come, Yuffie Kisaragi," he calls. "Break yourself against me."

And dammit, she wants to, to just hurl herself at him headlong and fall to pieces in his arms, but he's got a gun in his hand and she's not that stupid. She hurls another throwing star like a bolt of Jovian lightning, and all it does is skim his tattered cloak as he dances out of the way. She moves but he moves faster, and she can all but see the cross-hairs in his eyes as he raises the gun. She sees his mouth moving silently against the wind, but she knows what he's saying.

_This is what I was meant to do, too._

Her shoulder bursts into a thousand fragments of fire and pain, a multicoloured explosion of sensation and light. It smells like gunpowder, the way he smells when he comes home tired and bloody and all he wants to do is collapse into bed and stop breathing. The feeling is somewhere between fear and release, an all-consuming void she could lose herself in if she's not careful. But she knows that void better than anything else, and draws it inside of her.

She's losing, and she knows it.

The problem is physical, she notes in a way so clinical she wonders if it's really her. He has bullets and she doesn't. To attack, she needs to leave herself open to him, and it's a little like love when she thinks of it that way but this isn't the time for it. He has bullets, and she doesn't.

He whirls away and aims again, but she's too quick and too calm this time. The bullet ricochets off her shuriken, sending shockwaves through her in a way she can only think is delicious. She breathes, in, out, in, out, and feels the world tighten around her. She focuses it all down, herself and her feelings and her memories and the people she's killed and the ones she's yet to kill, the pain and the glory and the gaping void and the vicious freedom that she can't seem to escape from. She boils it all down into one point, and she has a bullet because the bullet is her.

She flies.

The whole world seems to have forgotten there's anything more than him and her. Time slows to a crawl, the forest turns into an excited mesh of colours, and the wind stops. He's quick but he underestimates her determination, and before he knows it she's upon him, screaming in equal parts anger, horror, pain and joy, until she finally feels the metal in her hand sink into his tough, knotted muscles.

"Ugh", he says, and somehow it's the most eloquent thing she's ever heard.

"You promised, Vincent. You promised," she almost sobs, like the time when her mother promised her she wouldn't die.

"Yes. You did, indeed, hit me. You get remote control priviledges for tonight," he says softly, wincing as he extricates her weapon from himself. She would like to think it's from pain, but really it's because he's seeing physically that he does not bleed like a normal person and never will.

She wonders as he walks her inside for a shot of Restore materia why they fight like they do, over such minor things. But why not? They were both born and bred for battle, and if they did what they knew who could blame them?

He pulls her into a hug, and she presses her ear against his heart. Next time, she will see the secrets it holds. Next time, she'll win.

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A/N: Phew. First time I've done a real battle scene in a while. Hope it's up to scratch.


	98. Baby Steps

A/N: Our ninety-third prompt goes to drillpill. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I have heard Through The Fire and Flames played on the violin. No one can touch me now.

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He is stumped, well and truly. Modern technology, with all its intricacies and occasional stupidities, has never confounded him quite so much.

The worst thing, of course, is that Yuffie was innately skilled at the practice, and immediately roped him in as a way to compare her 'awesomeness' with someone of a similarly graceful disposition.

The trouble, he realises, is that she is a ninja. And he is not. Regardless of his patience, his wisdom and his incredible endurance, she simply has better training for this kind of endeavor.

"Come on, Vince. Be a big brave boy," she cat-calls at him. The entire experience would be _slightly_ more bearable if she hadn't immediately flopped down in the nearest chair and rearranged herself so she was lying upside down on it. Because of that, he can see the smug look on her face- as well as note how low cut her top is. It takes him all of a second to calculate what the view would be from a more...conventional angle, and it's all it takes to topple him.

"Aww, come on, Vince. How're we supposed to pull off our big festival escapades if you can't even walk in stilts?" she moans.

"Please explain why I would _ever _desire to walk on stilts, Yuffie. They are a most ridiculous mode of transport," he grumbles.

"Because I asked you to, Vince. Honestly, you're so cute when you don't know you're being led into a trap," she purrs indulgently. He curses internally.

"I remind you, Yuffie, that I am in possession of a very large stick, and am more than inclined to hit you with it."

She interprets the phrase 'very large stick' in a way which does not involve his stilts, and shoves her hand in her mouth to stifle her giggling.

Against his better instinct, he picks the stilts back up and tries, tentatively, to learn the art. He does it not to please her (although, worryingly, in recent months he has started to enjoy her furtive laughter when he becomes the butt of her jokes), but to experience the sensation of learning to walk again. As he wobbles gracelessly ten feet in the air, he can almost remember his childhood, when the floor was so very close and yet so very far away, and someone warm and gentle tucked him into their arms when he fell. It reminds him, too, of when he first became involved with Yuffie, of how he felt weightless and unbalanced by having her share his life. He still feels that way, sometimes. He's only really taken baby steps towards understanding her.

But, unlike his stilt-walking, they are at least in the right direction.

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A/N: Stilts are matched only by quad bikes in their opportunity for hilarity and death.


	99. Haggis

A/N: Phew. Just got home after a busy day, to a prompt by Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Did I read the user agreement? Well, yeah, but it's hardly Shakespeare, y'know. You could at least spice it up with some epic sword fights or something. (My English teacher spiced up A Streetcar Named Desire by telling us that a bomb fell on the house. Even now, after reading the play, I'm still waiting morosely for the whine of a doodlebug that will never come.)

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Haggis wandered into her life one day as nothing more than one of Cait Sith's incoherent and inexplicably accented ramblings.

"Haggis! Good for all that ails ye, they say! Could mebbe cure that air sickness of yours, hm?" the cat said as he wandered past on the airship. It was shortly punted over the railings for being irritating, and there went Cait Sith 6, spiralling through the air like the lifeless golem that it, in reality, was.

As much as she knew it was in her best interests not to listen to or even vaguely understand any of Cait Sith's weird sayings, haggis kept coming back to haunt her. A prospective cure for airsickness? Anything was worth a shot, really. But what kind of word was haggis, anyway? Sounded like a half-baked insult or something. Not really her cup of Earl Grey.

But then along came Cid.

"Haggis? Sure, I've had it. Tastes pretty good, actually- better than you'd think. Damn hearty food, that's what that stuff is. Maybe put some meat on that scrawny ass of yours," he'd said, puffing away at his cig. She fought an overwhelming urge to make his fate one with Cait Sith's, but the advice remained.

Like a cat, she toyed with the notion of this strange 'haggis'. Cloud simply grimaced and said he had been served it in his Shinra days, and that it wasn't his thing. Red XIII looked at her quizzically, and asked her gently if she was feeling okay.

"Hn?" Vincent intoned. This usually translated as 'I have valuable information and/or plot spoilers, but you'll have to repeat the question with some manners included.' In response, she threatened to do some impromtu shuriken hairdressing. The threat, usually inspiring terror in Cloud and wariness in Tifa, merely served to make him mildly amused.

"Haggis. It's a very nutritional foodstuff. I often find myself stocking up on it, for various reasons. Would you like to partake?"

With her ninja curiosity, there could only be one answer.

He served it in a mock candlelit dinner, complete with a glass of red wine to compliment the flavour, as he said. She prodded it a few times with her fork, unsure. Wasn't it basically a balloon? Who ate balloons, apart from people who were too hard up to afford chewing gum? Nevertheless, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and started to eat.

"Oh, is it not to your tastes?" Vincent asked with sadistic politeness when she spat it back out onto the plate and started cussing five generations of Cait Sith and Cid's mother.

"It's foul, Vince!" she complained. "How can _that_ improve my health?"

"Improve your health? Hn. I consider that to be a modern myth. It's more probable that anyone with the determination to consume an entire haggis is likely indestructible anyway," he chuckled softly.

"And you _like_ that stuff?" she accused.

"Oh, no. It does not appeal to me in the slightest," he rumbled. "Although to Galian Beast, there are few greater delicacies."

She took a moment to digest the fact that she had essentially been fed red wine and monster chow. She considered making a third addition to the list of people who were found mysteriously dead in fields.

"What the hell's in it, anyway?" she hissed.

"Ah, but that's the secret, Yuffie. Although, as I get Cid to cook it, I can assure you it comes with a free helping of good old fashioned love," Vincent said seriously.

The best way to the heart is through the stomach. And she was almost sure she could feel her dinner start to claw its way toward her ribcage.

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A/N: Another food one that kind of stumped me. (I've not tried haggis; apparently, it's quite nice, but it offends a lot of people's sensibilities, and is only for those of a strong constitution.)


	100. Whip

A/N: This is another one of my prompts, and it just so happens to fall on the hundredth chapter. There's still five more prompts to do, though, and that's where the real occasion falls.

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Disclaimer: Square's legal team deals exclusively with commercialised BS. Valentine's Day is commercialised BS. I'm seeing a pattern...(Oh, and since Valentine's Day doesn't fall on schedule, no special for you guys. Consider this your V-day prompt.)

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Sweet, supple leather that's warm to the touch, and that resists just slightly but crumples when you did your fingers in- understandably, it's one of her favourite textures. It's Vincent's fault, of course.

When she first started dating him, she was aware that there would be consequences. New habits, a new schedule, and a few boot marks on her ceiling from where he hung upside down and slept in the day, but she was never really expecting she'd get a _fetish_ out of it. Goddamn leather trousers.

This, however, is the perfect solution. Leather, so it allows her to indulge herself. Painful, so she can pay him back when he steps out of line. And twelve feet long, just so she can get in some 'that's what she said' jokes. Introducing 'Vampire Thriller', her new and shiny bullwhip.

Of course, as with so many things, it doesn't go to plan. She imagined she'd be running down tunnels away from boulders, swinging from the rafters at the last second to a devilishly stylish escape. What actually happened was that she whipped herself. A lot. As it turned out, bullwhips were one of those things that were actually very difficult to use. But hell, how hard could it be? She was a ninja, for gawd's sake. A little practice, and she'd be tossing those poppers around like a pro.

This lead to her whipping herself. Again.

Worst of all, on a particularly bad day where it had rained and they'd run out of ice cream and her whip just wouldn't _freaking _work, she became so frustrated by the thing that she didn't even notice Vince come into the yard and lean himself against the wall for some free entertainment. In fact, she only noticed when she'd made a particularly bad throw and the poppers came and hit her _right in the freaking ass_, at which point Vinnie finally decided to speak up.

"Yuffie. I was...unaware you had these kinds of desires," he rumbled, walking up behind her. She yelped and suddenly her throat was very dry indeed.

"I shiver to think what damage you have done yourself this way," he carried on. "If you needed someone to provide this particular service, you need only have asked."

With that, he gently took the whip from her hand and threw it out flawlessly, knocking over the tin cans she'd set up as a target and not managed to touch.

"Vincent," she hissed, "How the _hell_ did you learn to do that?"

"Tifa taught me," he said, somewhat uncomfortably. "Although, I didn't ask how she knew."

For a moment, she was nonplussed. Then with a sickening jolt, she realised that Cloud had weird tastes in pretty much _everything_ and Tifa's skirts were made of 100% genuine leather.

She wasn't so keen on her new toy after that.

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A/N: Just a little dorky one. I'm saving my energy for the 100th prompt.


	101. Homework Assignment

A/N: This prompt comes from Kaida Ukitake. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Jack and Jill rolled down the hill, and straight into a lake. Broken rules and copyright do not a lawsuit make.

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Homework is something he has not done for aeons past. It conjures up shadowing memories of arithmetic and the smell of pencil shavings wafting from the bin. However, he will at least deign to complete this one assignment. Mainly because Yuffie will have his head if he does not.

The task is deceptively simple: to get himself a set of casual clothes, to be worn during candlelit dinners and other faculties where he might otherwise be expected to appear in public. However, after trawling Edge's many fashion outlets, clothes depositories and article barns, he has realised one thing: his fashion sense is as dead as a twice-cooked Guard Hound.

So, in order to not fail the first piece of homework he has received in more than thirty years, he has called in outside help. He has called in Cid.

Which, all things considered, may not have been the most prudent move. Cid's interest in clothing extends little beyond comfort, and, truth be told, the old man is just as lost among all these clothes as he is. But, nevertheless, with many cigarrettes, curses and a fair wad of gil, they assemble an outfit.

He feels almost like an overgrown schoolboy as he puts on his outfit and waits for Yuffie's arrival in the cafe. She has instructed him that the clothes must at least be interesting, so no college sweaters and cargoes for him. But he feels that the clothes might be considered a little too...flamboyant, to be considered casual.

"_Oh. My. Gawd_."

Her jaw drops as she spots him sipping his coffee. Literally drops. To be honest, he doesn't blame her. He was himself entertaining the thought that Cid's help was not only unnecessary, but positively detrimental.

"You didn't, Vince. Please, tell me this is a joke," she squeaks.

"I feel perhaps it is, although I fear I'm the butt of it," he replies.

Stifling giggles, she looks him up and down again. He notices a gleam of what he hopes might be a grudging respect in her eyes, for commitment if nothing else.

"Well, Vince," she says in a voice so carefully measured you could draw straight lines with it, "You managed to get away with keeping a pair of leather trousers."

She's right, although the colour is a little different and they're uncomfortably tight. He prefers his old ones, but the price was right, as they say.

"But, Vincent," she says, and for the first time allows the note of hysterical pity to creep into her voice, "_Ruffled shirts?_"

As ruffled as a terrified parrot. Cid was particularly pleased at the purchase. He has begun to think that his old-time drinking buddy set him up.

"Umm, well...It's interesting, to say the least. Can't help feeling like you should be holding a rose in your teeth and flamenco dancing, though."

"That, Yuffie, can be arranged," he says seriously. She giggles again, in a way that suggests she has insects of the lepidopteran order fluttering around in her stomach.

"You dork. Get me a skinny latte, Latino style. Y'oughta know that 'dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.'"

"Oh dear. I assume that, by horizontal, you are not referring to a new and fervent desire to purchase a hammock," he replies wryly. Even though it's a conversation about debauchery, he enjoys their little riposte and parry sessions.

"By horizontal, Vince, I mean on the tables, against the wall and in midair. We'll need to work on the last one," she grins sneakily.

His homework is complete- he'd give himself a grade B, for effort. The sun was setting in Edge, and an 'interesting' night as a flamenco dancer awaited him.

"Hey, you crazy kids. How're ya- wait, horizontal? What the hell're you talking about?"

And Cid has just walked into the conversation at precisely the wrong time. He smiles. _Same old, same old_. His wine that evening smells faintly of pencil shavings.

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A/N: I was actually rather distracted when writing this chapter...My apologies. Personal drama. My thoughts on this chapter mainly revolve around the question, "I wonder if I could pull off a ruffled shirt." To anyone out there, the answer is no. Emphatically.


	102. Watching Him

A/N: This prompt is from Szahara again. Thanks!

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Another Musical Disclaimer: My blood runs cold, my memories have just been sold. My angel is the centrefold! (In a Playstation Power magazine, maybe...)

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She's noticed him giving that stare, the one that only men can do, laser-hot and focused on the most obvious target. She can't blame him, really, because hell, he's a guy, and guy is basically a synonym of pervert anyway. At least he's being _somewhat_ discreet about it- after all, she hasn't seen any obvious lumps and bumps in his leather trousers yet. And that's more courtesy than she usually gets at the Weapons Shops.

Still, it's annoying. This is Vincent Valentine, possibly the most depressing person in the _entire world_, and he's got those weirdo blood-red eyes locked onto her butt. Of course, it's not the most world-shattering problem (ol' Sephy Silver Hair lays claim to that), but it's one she may as well deal with as she goes along.

For the first week, she's almost sure he doesn't notice her following him. Almost. She can't really say for sure, because no one really knows how much of him is man and how much monster, and monsters have sensitive ears. He lives a shadowy life, she notes, sticking to darkness where possible. It doesn't bother her. She likes the shadows. At night, she lives in them, dragging her feet along with exhaustion during the day. But it's all for revenge, and that's a higher priority than silly little things like sleep.

Still, she can't help wishing he'd pay more attention. It's no fun spying on him if he doesn't make it interesting.

The second week is something of a revelation. Until then, he'd just been pottering about, fulfilling night watch with those red eyes burning away like cigar burns in the night sky. Now, he shifts and murmurs to himself, staring deeply into the fire. She tries to catch snatches of what he's saying, but it's too soft for her to hear, more of a lullaby than the fevered rantings of a madman. But all in all, she's pleased. She feels as though she's been let into a private moment, an oasis in the desert of Vincent Valentine's lack of personality.

In the third week comes change.

Finally, it happens; a monster stupid enough to sneak up upon their group when it sleeps. An earth-splitting growl is the harbinger of the fight, and immediately the sound of gunshots follow. The others wake from their beds and grab their weapons, but they're weighed down with sleep and of no help.

Her stomach turns when she realises that she is one of only two people seperating the group from certain death. The monster, whatever it is, shuns the wan halo of light from the campfire, staying formless and hidden in the encroaching dark. Vincent's gun kicks in his hand, and each time it does a roar of fury and passes like a shockwave through the camp, shaking her very bones. Vincent fights marvellously, dodging away from strikes that whistle through the air but never appear to the naked eye and returning them blow for blow, but it will all come to a head sooner or later; whatever lies in the shadows, it is greater than one man, even the titans of AVALANCHE.

She rushes forwards. The shadows are her domain, she remembers, and no monster will occupy them without her permission. As she readies her weapon and leaps towards the dark, she fancies she sees Vincent's red eyes, still smouldering and wide in shock, fixed upon her. She hurls her shuriken into the dark, and it hits something soft and fleshy with an audible 'schlck'.

She feels the first thrill of triumph soar through her, but as soon as she does she's jerked back, viciously, with a roar that could only come from a human. Vincent tosses her aside and out of danger as easily as she might toss a ninja star, but the motion is too slow and an obsidian claw flicks out of the shadows like a switchblade and carves a deep, jagged line from his brow to his jaw. The blood starts to pool immediately, black and hot, running down his forehead and into his eyes. Another howl draws itself from his lips, and without warning his explodes from human form. Scar and sinew seem to fragment and disappear as Galian Beast takes the fray, launching itself into the dark with abandon.

Morning breaks before they see him again, staggering into camp still bleeding from the face, a hundred battle-scars etched on his face. He looks even older than before. Excusing himself deferentially, he retreats to the shadows, seeking solace in sleep.

An hour later, she appears at his side, and carefully mops the blood from his face. He hasn't bothered to dress the wound. It strikes her, suddenly, as ironic, that she's standing here. She no longer desires revenge.

But she still watches over him regardless.

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A/N: Yeah, I don't really know. I had an idea for this, but I must have forgotten it.


	103. Together

A/N: The ninety-eighth prompt of this collection goes to Anzer'ke. Let's see what we can do. (Dunno if there was a specific requirement for this prompt, but anyway.)

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Disclaimer: Do you think Square employ someone to just browse through all these fanfics and flag the ones they don't approve of?

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She doesn't believe in life after death.

Well, actually, she does, but not the traditional 'let's all sit on clouds in bath robes and play Camptown Races on the harp' fantasy. Call her crazy, but in this world of magic, monsters and summoned beasts, she always took the scientific approach. And there's only one afterlife she has cold, hard evidence of.

The Lifestream.

As a ninja, she's always believed in the adage of 'live forever, or die trying'. But, to be honest, living forever doesn't seem to be on the cards if you aren't some sort of disembodied, malevolent evil nestling deep in the Planet's womb, waiting for the chance to unleash yourself onto a new and unprepared generation of ignorant humans. Or Vincent Valentine, who's just as gloomy but somewhat more benign, depending on whether you're dumb enough to annoy him.

The question of 'what next' is something that bothers her much more than him. She wouldn't mind, but the thought of him moping around would annoy her even if she had prematurely bought the farm.

So, to keep him occupied in his immortality, she's making him a treasure hunt.

The first thing he needs to get is a big, shiny chunk of Leviathan materia. And any other materia he can get his grubby little hands on, but Leviathan first.

Then, he needs to find a white rose. A fresh one, complete with thorns, with petals that are silken to the touch.

Finally, he needs to find her. In however many forms, in trees, in people, in the very earth itself; whatever form her essence takes, he has to track her down. It might take him years, it might take him centuries. But he's not allowed to give up, and not allowed to give in.

And, when he finally finds her, he is to lay all the treasure he has found- the materia, the rose, and every single memory he has made in his travels- at her feet.

That way, although she might never know it, they will be together again, if only in that moment.

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A/N: It's been a while since I did anything so short. I kinda like it.


	104. Tetris

A/N: Chapter 99- we're almost there! This prompt goes to Circle of Phoenix.

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Disclaimer: Copyright sucks. That is all.

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There's something so right about them, slotted together, like two blocks perfectly aligned. She's all bent out of shape and he has bits missing, but in the end, they're made for each other.

There's one thing, though.

It may take seconds. It may take years. Hundreds of other less compatible couples will collide and break apart. But they can stay perfectly aligned, perfectly together.

But when the time comes to disappear and make way for the next wave, only one of them will fade into aether. He'll be left there, on his own, to support the rest of the pile.

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A/N: Just a drabble today. Tetris is a very specialist subject if you're going to be writing thousands on words on it, and I'm not specialist. Look forwards to next chapter! **Edit:** Changed it a little due to some miscellaneous errors (due mainly to exhaustion). Thanks to Drill-Pill for pointing them out to me. It _should _still come up to 100 words, but I'm a little too tired to care.


	105. Final Countdown

A/N:Well, here's the hundredth prompt! It's been a long road. Thanks for all the people who've read, reviewed and shown their support thus far!

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Disclaimer: "In a clear pond, there are no fish". Basically how fanfiction works, I guess.

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The air hangs heavy with aggression. She's getting the jitters, and has to remind herself one or two times that what she's sensing, what she's _feeling_, is simply ridiculous. It's a meteor, not a sentient being. It can't be aggressive; it's another gaudy tool of the madman named Sephiroth, just the same that flamboyantly long sword of his.

But somehow, she fears it as she would fear a person. It's indescribable. Maybe it's because Meteor was called by the black materia, fuelled by the planet's power. They always said that materia was condensed mako, allowing commune with the planet's wisdom- some even said it contained it. It didn't feel that way to her. She didn't know what the black materia contained, but in her mind it was like the planet's evil, rotten and decayed and pulsing like a heart. It was power, desire and nihilism of the grandest scale, compressed into a tiny ball and tossed into the world like a grenade. If it hadn't been Sephiroth, it would only have been another fool a hundred or two hundred years down the line, and in a way it's a lucky escape, because in a hundred years time AVALANCHE wouldn't have been around to stop them.

But _Meteor_. Try as she might, she can't stop thinking of it as a person. It's like it's watching her, deliberating, like it might throw itself to the ground onto her out of pure spite. She shivers, but carries on. She has work to do.

"Come on! Faster! We need everyone out, before that thing falls!" she yells. It was a miracle she has any help, really. The rescuers are made up of her, Vincent and the last remnants of the Shinra Army- protecting the citizens, just as Rufus' daddy had always promised they would. It's a little ironic, but she's grateful for the help. It's ironic, too, that Reeve, the highest level traitor in the Shinra organisation, would now command them in their droves.

She works quickly and well. Anyone too wounded to walk receives a shot of cure and a soldier's shoulder to lean on. A few are too stubborn to leave the city, just as a few were too stubborn to leave the Sector Seven slums and pursue a new life. There's no time for arguing or convincing, so they receive a blow to the head and are carried to safety. She's the perfect person for that job- she understands that morality is not in black or white but in shades of grey. She committed crime for the greater good, and she will steal someone's freedom to save their life.

As the last few soldiers yell their goodbyes and drag the last few refugees with them, she feels a strange moment of terror as Vincent's voice crackles over the radio.

"Yuffie," he says, his voice smouldering across the airwaves like a seeping whisper of death. "I...sensed life, at the Sister Ray."

Every ache, pain and scar that litters her body breaks into a unanimous roar: _No!_ It defies logic. They left nothing alive on the Sister Ray. Vincent made sure of that.

"There can't be, Vincent. It's _over_," she hisses.

"Check again. Please," he replies, the danger in his voice cut short by curtness.

Angrily, she sweeps the detector up and down the tower. It feels _wrong_. Like an omen or something. And in a way, it scares her even more than Meteor.

"Wait. No..."

A short sigh of- what? Resignation?- breaks from her as a glowing dot of life flashes up on the display. It sits at the very point of the Sister Ray, and somehow she knew it would. She can almost see how it'll end- Meteor will watch silently from on high as she and Vincent stand atop the tallest tower, waiting to meet it when it falls.

"I'm going back. Get out without me," he says, and breaks off radio communications.

She holds the radio so tightly she can feel the sides buckling under the grip. She tries to reach him, but he's away, rushing to the tallest tower to embrace death when it comes for him.

"Vincent!" she howls, the echoes bouncing around the silent city. "I have a bad feeling about this!"

She calls her hardest, forcing every last drop of air from her lungs. Then, with a final huff, she lets her arms drop listlessly at her sides. Never before has she known so clearly that she was going to die, and never before did she attribute it so entirely to her own stupidity. Moving in a half-dream, she rushes towards the tower, as the seconds tick down around her until Meteor's fall.

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Never before have his movements been so smooth and taught. The long years in the coffin stiffened his bones, but now muscle and sinew sing around them. Every time he breathes in he savours the poison of Midgar, and every time he breathes out he expels his own rage. When Meteor falls, neither he nor anything on the tower will survive. He will have earned his rest.

Finally, he reaches the tower. It stands above the city like a prophet atop a mountain, awaiting the descent of a God. The arrogance of humans never fails to amuse him. He begins his ascent.

Immediately, the silence of the city is broken by metal clashing against metal as he rushes up the stairs. He almost relishes it, because it might be the last time he hears anything so like the sound of weapons colliding, and that's a thought he can enjoy. He climbs up one staircase and another, wishing for once that he didn't have a shroud to contain him so; he could be so much faster without the wind resistance.

He draws a breath as he reaches the top. He doesn't know what he'll find, and for once it scares him; he would hate to exit this world without fulfilling his vengeance. But, he looks over the tower and all is as it should be; nothing more than a defunct computer, and the corpse of a man who contained a monstrous mind. Somewhere in the pit of his subconscious, he registers that a normal person would see this as an atrocity rather than justice taking its course. He breathes out again, for once allowing his shoulders to slacken. There is not enough time to retreat from the city, at least not without allowing Chaos' wings to bear him to safety. At the very thought, the beast rumbles in his chest, but there's little point. He begins to turn away. He has no desire to spends his last moments staring at the misshapen remains of Hojo. A weight seems to fall from his shoulders.

Lighting flashes down like divine judgement and for a moment he is rendered blind. As he reels, he feels Death resettle itself in his shadow; evidently, his purpose has not yet been fulfilled. Immediately, he checks the corpse- _to find that it is no longer there_.

Dead men do not walk. Once, he believed that, but after seeing the hordes of undead monsters in his journey, he knows that what should be dead never stays that way. Meteor looks down on him from on high, another present from a dead man who does not wish to stay that way. It is ironic, then, that he himself cannot die; that he will spend the rest of his everlasting life chasing dead men in order to kill them again.

A momentary flare of anger at his inevitable fate triggers it: Chaos. The beast howls inside him, tearing away every emotional wall he has built in order to force the transformation. It has called him to transform before, but never like this; it feels like the entire planet is railing against him, preserving him for some higher purpose. He can't resist so great a force when it boils inside him, and all too soon, the change begins-

"_Vinceeeeeeeeeeeent!"_

Everything stops. Yuffie. She was supposed to have gotten out of the city by now. Information registers in his brain before he even thinks about it, and Chaos' call to transformation becomes an all-consuming survival instinct. He doesn't even realise what he's doing when he launches himself through the air and lands on Yuffie's air bike.

As soon as he's aboard, he can feel her trembling; part fear, part sickness, part rage. He bows his head.

"Yuffie, you didn't have to do this."

She takes a deep breath. And another. And a third.

"Vincent Valentine, you are a freaking _idiot_, and if you don't shut the hell up, _this very second_, I'm pointing this baby ninety degrees downwards and smashing us both into the ground. We'll see how your little atonement obsession progresses when you realise your stupid depressive speeches caused the death of an innocent team mate," she hisses with unmitigated fury.

He thinks it a little extreme, but says nothing and accepts the judgement. He has little choice, after all- if the bike were to crash, Chaos would simply force him to transform and wrestle him to safety anyway, and it would be a shame to be responsible for Yuffie's death. It all draws him towards the same conclusion.

On the tower, for abut a second, his life was counting down to its end. But something, whether it was Hojo, Chaos or Yuffie, arrested that countdown. But for what purpose?

Meteor's shadow falls low over the dead city of Midgar. But it is not quite so dark as the future he feels lies ahead.

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A/N: Yup, our 100th chapter was an angst. I'll save the real celebrations (and a happier story) for the special coming up next time. Also, this is the first real time (in my memory) that I've actually taken a moment from the game and worked with it; I can't decide whether I did well or not.


	106. Russian Roulette

A/N: And here's your prompt centenary special. I'll do my spiel at the end, so for now, just enjoy the show.

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Disclaimer: 106 chapters and Square _still_ hasn't reduced me to a penniless tramp shivering on the corner of the street. I'm almost insulted.

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Life, he finds, is a game of Russian roulette. It is a necessity, in some ways, to gamble with one's life; it keeps the soul vigorous. After spending so long in his coffin, he took care to note the laziness he was now subject to, the utter lack of motivation (beyond a certain murderous urge to grant justice to one Hojo, of course). He once made the mistake of commenting about it to Yuffie.

"Oh, yeah. That's why Wutai lost the war, y'know. Well, according to Pops, anyways," she said, pausing in her avid perusal of her cotton candy. Her gaze was predatory, as if she was figuring how to make consuming the confection as painful as possible for it.

Having made the mistake of invoking Yuffie's opinion, he then proceeded to make the mistake of asking how she justified laziness as a cause of Wutai's defeat.

"It's not _our_ laziness, 'course. We're not usually lazy," she said. Evidently, she was the exception to that particular rule. "It's the laziness of our gods. Y'know, all the hokey deities the Da-Choa celebrates."

"...This is a troubling attitude, Yuffie. One should always take responsibility for one's own failures, and resist the ever present temptation to blame them on a mountain," he admonished.

"Yeah, whatever. _Any_ways," she said, finally biting into her cotton candy (and maintaining a disappointed expression when it didn't scream in pain), "Pops put our victory all down to the Gods not favouring us. He said it's because the Gods have all the time in the world, so they don't feel pressed to do anything because they can always do it later."

"I see," he said, without really understanding. How did having a good deal of time in which to accomplish a task reduce one's motivation to do it?

"Y'know, because as a human being, you always have a time limit because you might die. So it's important to get stuff done, otherwise you might buy the farm before you do. That's why they say that humans are so weak, y'know- because, if you gave us enough power to do stuff, we'd rip the world apart with all the changes we'd make to it. The Gods get to have power because they can never really be bothered to use it," she explained, a chunk of cotton candy hanging precariously from her cheek.

In all his life, he did not expect to be receiving a philosophy lecture from Yuffie Kisaragi, whose notable thoughts had hitherto included 'what's for dinner' and 'how do I jack Vincent's cool shroud thingy'. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt his self esteem draw itself into the foetus position and begin to cry.

"But really, I don't think that's the case at all," she smirked. "I think Wutai lost because we were that dependent on the Gods, we didn't think, 'Hey, I know. Why don't we get Leviathan and just go nuts for a while?'"

He sighed. "Yuffie, your forthrightness never ceases to amaze me."

"Hey, it takes time to dance around with words. Seize the moment, and everything else!" she retorted.

"For once, I couldn't agree more," he smiled.

With a movement faster than she thought him capable, he relieved her of her cotton candy. She recognised the movement from somewhere- the arc of the arm, the splay of the fingers...

"...Hey. Are you copying my awesome stealing techniques, Vinny?" she exploded.

"This is one of the benefits of taking one's time: one can observe and practice for any eventuality," he rumbled.

"Pah. You still need some real world practice, bucko. You'd have never gotten it if I was on my guard."

Even quicker than before, he shot his arm out towards her face and stole the piece of cotton candy that had, until now, been clinging to her cheek forlornly like a very unlucky mountaineer. Her cheek tingled where his fingers had touched, and she watched in astonishment as he popped it nonchalantly into his mouth.

"That, I believe, was 'seizing the moment and everything else'. After all, if I had waited, you might have finished the candy," he smiled darkly. The smile was a little too smug for her liking. Vincent Valentine should _never_ look smug when she was in the room. Her inner predator was beginning to get restless.

He noticed the predatory gaze in her eyes immediately. However, even with his sagacity, he could never predict what Yuffie Kisaragi would do next. As such, he was very surprised indeed when she threw herself at him and sent him crashing to the ground with her on top of him. And his surprise reached truly astronomical levels when he felt a pair of soft, warm lips press against his own.

After a second or two filled with emotions that were intense but so fleeting he could hardly experience them before they melted away, Yuffie drew back with an evil smile on her face. Grinning, she stuck out her tongue, on the tip of which was the cotton candy she'd just stolen from his very mouth.

"Still need more practice in the real world, Vinny. And I'm not just talking about thievery. I could teach you, but for a price!" she winked.

Indeed, life with Yuffie was like playing russian roulette with a water pistol. You never knew when she was going to go off. But you were certain to be left with a good deal less dignity after she did.

* * *

A/N: Short and fluffy to balance out the last chapter. Now we're here, I have a few things to say.

1) A few people have asked 'What happens next?' Truth is, I haven't decided yet. I might carry it on because it's been a fun experience and great practice, but on the other hand, I had an idea for another project which would also consume a lot of time. To decide what to do, I'm going to take a **two week break**, after which I'll make my decision. If I decide to carry it on, I'll roll straight into the next chapter; if not, I'll mark it down as complete.

2) A big thanks to all the people who've read and reviewed. Some of you have been here since the second the collection began, and to those people I extend my very warmest thanks. (You know who you are, so I won't embarrass you.) Thanks too to all the people who have given prompts- I hope I managed to write whatever it was you were looking for.

3) I'm considering taking one of these prompts and opening it up into a full-blown oneshot. I'll put a poll up on my profile to see which one people suggest.

All in all, I'm very pleased with myself right now. Whether or not I decide to carry this collection on, I can look back and be proud of what I've achieved thus far. I may get some chocolate biscuits to celebrate. I hope you've all enjoyed the collection as much as I have.


	107. Teddy Bear

A/N: Well, in the end, I decided to continue, simply because writing this every two days gives me something to do. I don't know how long I'll continue for; I have other stuff that needs doing too, and I can't really put it off forever. However, I should be back for another fifty chapters, at the very least. How did I reach my decision? To quote myself:  
"Well, I've done over a hundred chapters. Time to rub it in people's faces." Good to be back! This prompt comes from SragonZ.

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Disclaimer: There are about six truly original stories in the world. This ain't one of them.

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When she was young, she went through the 'I must collect _three_ _bajillion_ stuffed toys and perch them on the end of my bed, for reasons ostensibly involving yearnings for aesthetic quality but really to convince any boy who enters that I am a raging psychopath and creep him out, thus reducing opportunities for the contraction of cooties' phase. Luckily, it had passed by the time she'd said the name, but it still left her with a small flotilla (perhaps even an armada) of the creepiest, most reflective button-black-eyed teddy bears known to man.

Her first thought was to jam them in a closet. Unfortunately, being a ninja meant she had trust issues with inanimate objects (which, in Wutai, had about a fifty percent chance of being other ninja in disguise). And if she wasn't going to trust them in plain sight, she certainly wasn't going to give them a nice, dark closet to plot in.

Her second thought was to dump- ahem, donate- them at a charity shop. Job done, for the next couple years at least. The hiatus from scary, fluffy toy-filled nightmares lasted right up until the end of Sephiroth's war.

And then, she got famous.

She wasn't aware of it until, one day, a reporter minced up to her (yes, minced), and asked her if she knew one of her childhood toys had recently sold at auction for 500,000 gil. As it turned out, the workers at the charity shop were ninja too (albeit economic ninja), and, predicting Yuffie would either one day get famous as a magnanimous ruler or spiral off the rails into delicious media publicity, it would be prudent to set her toys aside to be sold when the time was right.

Before she knew it, the whole situation had exploded into ridiculousness. She was getting media attention about the incredible creepiness of her toys ("Why does this bear stare into Infinity? Do you think this may have affected you in some way, or perhaps damaged your mental health? Did your parents abuse you?") at the same time as said toys were attracting big, big prices. In the end, she decided to take the ninja's way out and steal them all back.

Which left her with a rather large sack of toys and several rather confused people who had lost teddies. It was then that she hit upon her third idea.

Target practice.

After twenty minutes of liberating, kunai-swinging and shuriken chucking _teddy genocide_, she was, all things considered, fairly (or should that be bearly?) pleased with herself. Up until she caught a flash of red in her peripheral vision, and turned to see Vincent Valentine, holding one of her teddies at arm's length and staring it right in those creepy little eyes.

"H-hey! What are you doing here, Vinny Vinny Vince?" she asked nervously. Teddy bear corpses were still tied to just about every tree.

"...Troubled child," he murmured, before tossing her teddy bear in the air and quick-drawing Cerberus. The teddy exploded in a cloud of gunpowder and fluff.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, voice rising.

"Even you cannot be aware of the metaphorical ramifacations of destroying your...stuffed companions, Yuffie," he said, picking up another one from the steadily dwindling pile. "By tearing apart your childhood toys, you are purging yourself of silly, youthful affections and discarding the ideals that went with them, at the same time as reinforcing the idea that the weak cannot defend themselves and the strong will always stand above them. This is why the teddies, weak symbols of innocence, must perish at the whims of their owner."

"Boy, you should be the frontman for one of those depressing emo bands. I can't wait to hear you put _that _into lyrics," she said, rolling her eyes. "Why are you so interested, anyway?"

"Because, Yuffie. You reject your innocence by doing this. And that would be a great shame," he said, placing the bear in her arms and making to turn away. He stopped for a second, on the brink of hesitancy, and continued: "And you are not the only person to have committed this act in their lifetime."

As he stalked away, she looked after him, the bear still in her arms. He had a point, she thought, squeezing the toy. Maybe she'd keep one. Just one.

Later that night, the bear still in her arms beneath her duvet, she dreamed of a small boy with long black hair and a broken expression, pressing the barrel of a revolver to the head of a stuffed animal. Even in her dreams, Vincent's arms did not tremble as he pulled the trigger and blew away his childhood.

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A/N: Well, personally, I'm fairly pleased with this. A good note to return on, I'd say. That said, **prompts are now open again**, so start sending them in!


	108. The Midnight Train

A/N: Well, there wasn't a submitted prompt for this chapter (that I could find, anyway), so I've pulled one from my various resources. (Read: stolen from the internet.) Hope y'all enjoy.

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Disclaimer: There has been a tsunami in Japan. To respect that, I've decided not to crack any jokes about Japanese companies and lawsuits. (I can, however, imply them.)

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Her first ride on Edge's new train-line, and hers is a midnight ticket back to Wutai. She's leaving because- well, because she's a strain on him. He looks washed out, nowadays, and it's her fault. It's better for him this way.

Her head droops as the countryside races past without a care. Hours pass and the time to depart the train arrives.

She finds him waiting there at the station, roses in hand and more tired than ever. He predicted it. He's tired but happy, he says as he pulls her into his arms. He was planning a holiday, anyway.

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A/N: Just a drabble for today. Also, if you happen across any prompts, now would be the time to send 'em in!


	109. Diary Of Cid

A/N: This prompt goes out to Drillpill. Thanks! (By the way, this is a slight continuation of 'Woof'.)

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Disclaimer: Flip a coin. By the time it drops, I can be out of the country. Beat that, Mr. Lawyer.

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"I don't get it. Why? Just...why?" Yuffie grumbled, pawing through the bread bin. "Why do we have to house-sit for _everyone_?"

"Perhaps because we are the most sedentary of our group. Cloud is rarely stationary, Tifa cannot leave her bar, Barret must scout for oil and Red doesn't have opposable thumbs and thus has difficulty working the locking mechanisms of the house," Vincent replied, looking desperately for the television remote to provide a distraction for Yuffie. Little did he know, there wasn't one. Cid and Shera were both engineers at heart; if either one of them felt bored, there was always a machine to be tweaked. And televisions, whilst usually entertaining and occasionally informative, tended to (as Yuffie would have put it) _spontaneously complode_ if you poked around the insides with a wrench.

As he looked, he kept track of Yuffie's progress. She had finished with the bread bin and was now inspecting the fridge-freezer.

"Oh, damn. There's so much booze in here! Hey, Vince-"

"No, Yuffie. No house parties," he cut her off.

"Hate you too," she chirped, and went back to snooping.

She snooped unabashedly. Not surprising, really, considering she was used to snooping with intent to steal. His was a rather sneakier method of snooping, or so he thought, because he snooped whilst actually having another intention. (Yuffie thought it made him much more conspicuous about it.)

Eventually, whilst checking Cid did not absent-mindedly leave his television remote in a completely understandable place such as his sock, Vincent happened upon a book, leather bound and well-worn. It had no title or inscription, and only its well-thumbed-ness gave any indication as to its purpose. Guessing it to be Shera's, he left it on the bedside cabinet and went off to join Yuffie, who had apparently found some sort of goblin living between the sofa cushions.

The next he heard of it was later that evening, just as he was starting to read one of Cid's fascinating books on aeroplanes and why no one actually knew how they worked. Yuffie walked in from a bathroom break (during which copious amounts of Cid's velvet-soft toilet paper may or may not have found their way onto the roof) with a look of awe on her face.

"Vincent? Cid. He's a genius," she said simply, collapsing on the sofa with the leather bound book in her hands.

"...That isn't what I believe it to be, is it, Yuffie?" he asked, a growing sense of dread stealing through him.

"It's his diary. I...I can't believe it. The man's incredible," she said flatly.

"We shouldn't read it, Yuffie," he admonished, and instantaneously felt the urge to read it for himself.

"No, we should publish it. The world needs to see his greatness!" she said, handing him the book. After the obligatory five minutes of guiltily ignoring it whilst glancing over his shoulder to check that Cid had not returned from Mideel two weeks ahead of schedule, he opened the first page.

"Twelfth. Had a mustard, turkey and rye sandwich. Was dry. Added Nibelheim cheddar, improved it to no end. Thirteenth, had lettuce, tomato, eggplant and ham on granary bread. Needed salsa. Fourteenth, Kalm Traveller's Sauce over lettuce, turkey and onion on seeded wheat bread. Felt the need to add a dash of soy sauce...Yuffie...What on earth _is_ this?" he finally asked. Whatever it was, there was page after page of it.

"Soy sauce. On a sandwich. Get him a medal, Vince. He's a genius, and we should all bow down to him," she said emptily.

He bit his lip for a second, and replied, "Yuffie, I have always known Cid to be a genius. But after this, I now know why geniuses are so often feared."

The next day, he found her emptying a bottle of soy sauce over her breakfast cereal. With no better response, he shrugged and reminded himself never to eat her cooking.

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A/N: Phew. Feels good to be back in routine after all this time.


	110. Book Of Secrets

A/N: This prompt goes to Kaeris von Kaze. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Call the police, call the ambulance, call the Ghostbusters for all I care- just don't call the lawyer.

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"Phhbt. Sometimes, I hate my dad. Like, only when I breathe in, and then again when I breathe out," Yuffie said, hurling herself onto the park bench with rather too much abandon. She'd only thrown herself on it because he happened to be standing next to it at the time.

"...Don't," he counselled, and folded himself to sit cross-legged on the floor.

"Why not? I know family is precious and all that malarky, but I'm entitled to hate him if he's an ass," she said, wriggling her own. It itched, for some reason.

"...Fine. You obviously wish to find an outlet for your complaints. I'm listening," he said impassively.

"Ugh, he's such a jerk sometimes. He fired my favourite maid today, because she wouldn't drop her pants. Can you believe that? And that's on top of the fact he threw away my first kunai. I just spent, like, three hours in the trash looking for the damn thing. He had to do it when friends were visiting, too," she said, shooting him a meaningful glance and emphasising the word 'friends'.

"...I see. I assume you will be adding the ruined clothes to your list of grievances?" he said with a strange kind of Zen in his voice. He didn't look at her.

"Ruined clothes? What're you talking about?" she asked quizically, standing up. There was a wet sucking sound as her clothes stuck, and she realised why he hadn't been sitting on the bench.

"Aww, wet paint? Why didn't you tell me?" she fumed.

"I do not make a habit of giving you credit, Yuffie, but I at least assumed you could read," he quipped, jerking his hand at the sign on the bench.

"Dammit...All my other stuff's in the wash, too. Say, you don't mind if we go back to my house, do ya?" she asked. Her voice trembled at the end. Schoolgirl error.

"I see no reason why not," he said impassively.

At Yuffie's behest, they took the scenic route to her house. She gave him a crash course in the rich culture of Wutai, and he nodded sagely as if he knew it all already. After a few minutes of indecision, she decided not to push him into the river; after all, guests were guests.

"So, Vince," she babbled conversationally, "We know my dad's a prime cut of donkey butt, but what about yours? Come on, tell me everything. I'll be your psychotherapist. Looks simple enough- eighty percent eyebrow wiggling, dontcha know."

She felt her words go awry as Vincent Valentine became a psychological Adamantoise and tucked his head into his shell. Still, even an Adamantoise was vulnerable against magic, and Yuffie Kisaragi was known for her magic fingers.

"Tickle attack! Gotcha!" she said, completely ignoring the fact that she had not gotten him. He looked nonplussed as she shouted and tickled.

"...Aw. Should've known you weren't ticklish," she said morosely. "You know, I'm depressed. I might just throw myself into the river and end it all."

He didn't answer again. Man, he was a tough audience. She'd tried tickling, she'd tried muscling in on his emo racket...What else could she do?

"My father...I rarely saw him," he started suddenly, and just as suddenly stopped, as if surprised by his own outburst. She was so shocked, she almost fell into the river.

"...No, perhaps I did...He...Rarely, I..." he mumbled.

"Spit it out, Vincent. Come on- I'm your friend. We've been to the centre of the Planet and back together, more or less. Plus, I'm sexy, so tell me," she prodded.

"...He was a kindly man, I think. Tall. Large hands, I think, although perhaps it's merely because I was smaller back then. He was scholarly. There were many books," he said, intermittently. He took a minute or so between each sentence to think of the next.

"...Did the experiments...uh...break your memories of him?" she asked, fumbling for the right words like she would a dropped match- with a lot of burnt fingertips.

"...No, I do not believe so. He was simply...errant, I believe. His research...He was devoted to it. He would disappear for months on end, but when I believe he was very fond of me whilst he was there. He...was a good man, but he had his failings. He was human."

_And I am not_, she thought, predicting the unspoken words.

They spent the rest of the walk in awkward silence. She bit her tongue and felt, acutely, that she was somehow _failing_ at an unspoken role she had in the group, and that it was her responsibility to do something peppy or stupid to cheer him up.

She was still empty handed by the time they reached her house. She pulled open the screen door (needed some bamboo oil, _again_), and thought about what to do with her paint-splattered clothes. All her other stuff really was in the wash. As Vincent entered in behind her, she finally thought, _what the hell. We've been to the centre of the Planet and back together, right?_

"Yuffie, what on earth are you doing?" Vincent said, sounding surprised for perhaps the first time in his life.

"Taking my top off. Duh," she said, tossing it to the floor. "My house, my rules, and if I wanna walk around in my bra, then dammit, I'm gonna walk around in my bra. Besides, you expect me to wear painted clothes all day?"

"Yuffie, I must insist that-"

"Oh, I get it. You finally find your tongue when my clothes start coming off, huh?" she smirked. _There_ it was. Peppy and cheerful, or roundabouts. "Hey, you wouldn't be lugging around any spare trousers, would ya? There's some on my shorts too."

He closed his eyes and groaned. He wondered if her father would approve of this.

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A/N: Didn't really know where I was going with this.


	111. Red Silk Stockings

A/N: Another one of my prompts. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: May all your potatoes grow ripe and wholesome, and may your lawyers be buried in the fields they vacate.

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Honesty is nice and all, but sometimes secrets are a lot more fun. They're fun to keep, fun to share and fun to dig for, provided you don't get in way over your head.

Unfortunately, Vincent doesn't agree.

She's been trying to get him to come around for a whole week now. It's only little secrets, after all, and it'll be something they share together, right? But nope. He's got the whole strong, stoic patience thing going for him, and that means he won't give up if he thinks it's immoral. Which he thinks secrets most definitely are.

But arguing is only one way of persuading, after all. You can be strong and stoic all you want, but if you dump someone in a river they have to swim or sink.

"Hey, Vince," she says at the breakfast table. His eyes shoot immediately towards the jam, and, discovering it is safely on his side of the table, he relaxes.

"Yes, Yuffie? We're going to be late to work," he replies, buttering a scone with great difficulty. There's something about bread knives he just can't get his head around.

"Can you keep a secret?" she smiles. He groans.

"Yuffie, I am highly adept at keeping secrets, but that doesn't mean I wish to be privy to them," he says curtly. The last week exhausted his patience for the subject.

"Well, you know how Reeve lost to me in poker last thursday and I made 5000 gil?" she carries on, ignoring him. "Well, I spent it."

"Oh, I see. You got some money, which is made for the express purpose of being exchanged for goods, and then you _exchanged it for some goods_? How very wild, Yuffie. I fear you may be getting even more rebellious as you get older," he says sarcastically. She doesn't mind- she was the one who taught him all that sarcasm, after all.

"Yeah. I bought some stockings. Nice ones, too. Silk. Very soft against the skin," she grins, and lifts up the leg of her cargoes. He wondered why she wasn't wearing shorts this morning. Obligingly, he takes a look, but all he can see is a brief flash of crimson against her pale skin before she drops the leg again.

"Reeve's got an office policy against this kind of thing. You won't tell, will you? He'll make me take them off," she winks conspiratorially. She knows exactly what she's doing. Show him a little bit of temptation, drag him in as an associate, and then shake in a little hint of jealousy with the thought of another man making her take her clothes off. It's a masterclass.

He nods, and goes back to buttering his scone. His mind seems elsewhere, so it's almost not surprising when he accidentally chops it in half.

Step two of the plan comes at the office, and requires subtlety because it involves 'running in' to Vincent more than usual without it being noticeable. The best way to do this, she decides, is to slack off and spend the entire day in the coffee room.

"Ah, Yuffie. Good to see you," he says, washing his mug out for the fifth time. He's drinking a lot of coffee today. He desperately avoids the elbows of Bertha, the office worker who seems to enjoy dancing so much she cannot brew a cup of tea without flinging her limps about wildly to an imaginary latin beat.

"Huh? Yeah, I guess it must be. You might wanna look at my face when I'm talking, instead of my legs," she says seriously, ignoring the fact that he wasn't actually looking at her legs and was, in fact, trying not to scald himself as Bertha knocked his coffee cup out of his hands. However, it works exactly as she planned it to, and his eyes linger a little where her stockings are. Success.

She sees him but a few more times for the rest of the day, and every time he seems a little...distracted. By the time they walk home to each other, he's deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"Yuffie. You did this on purpose, didn't you?" he says when they reach a deserted street.

"What?" she smiles, nudging him.

"...Ugh."

She gets the message, and lifts the leg of her cargoes again. His eyes are riveted to her new stockings, and he says, almost dreamily, "The same red as my cape."

"Our little secret, Vinny. Our little secret," she winks.

"I get the message, Yuffie. Very well. I concede your point. Secrets, in moderation, can certainly be...eventful," he scowls, and strides away with his cape fluttering behind him.

She smiles a cat's smile. What he doesn't know is that she has a secret too, and that, if he were to go home and check his spare mantle, he'd find it was quite a bit shorter than it was before.

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A/N: Hmm. I don't quite seem to have gotten back into the swing of things yet after my holiday. Oh well. I couldn't post this on time due to problems with FF net.


	112. White Day

A/N: This prompt goes out to Kitty Materia Princess. Thanks! (Set a little after AC.)

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Disclaimer: Skills I must learn: how to kill a lawyer using only my wits and a packet of digestive biscuits. (I imagine stuffing them down their throats would work. Also, it'd stop them talking. I may be on to something here.)

* * *

White Day. She wasn't exactly looking forwards to it this year, for some strange reason. The reason was called Vincent Valentine, and he was, currently, holed up in a forest somewhere, probably hanging upside down from a bat. (Or his emo-ness had gone nuclear, meaning he'd just tied himself a noose made of his own hair and got on with it.)

She wouldn't have minded, but she had an exploitation ring going on. So far, she'd been able to track down Cloud, Cid and Barret, and coerce, threaten, blackmail or otherwise convince them to give her chocolate. She'd got three out of four men (she wasn't counting Red XIII, because he ate all his food raw and even if he did cook her some chocolate it'd have dog hair in it), and it was a matter of principal for her to get the fourth. Thieves' honour and all that.

Of course, she wasn't expecting him to just swoop down in the city streets and pull a box of chocolate out of his utility belt- that'd be too easy. (Hey, he wore, like, ten belts. _One_ of them had to hold all his cool little gadgets.) Nor was she expecting him to answer his goddamn phone like a freaking normal person would.

Nope. She was getting geared up for a long day's Vinny-hunting.

Her first thought was: gasmask. She was dealing with a guy who'd been living in a forest for, like, a year. Personal hygiene wasn't going to be one of his top priorities, and _she_ certainly wasn't going to suffer for it. Next, she'd need a net. Some sort of net that resisted fire breath, beast claws, massive amounts of electricity, the strength of a gigas, and chainsaws. Oh.

Well, she was pretty fast. If he ran away, she'd chase him. Now, something to make him give up the candy...A rubber mallet ought to do the trick. It wouldn't actually _hurt_ him, but could he stand the irritating squeaking noise it made? Somehow, she thought not. Although, he _did_ spend a lot of time with Cait Sith, and that was pretty much the most annoying thing she could think of. Come to think of it, what about Reeve, anyway? No candy from him yet. She'd get him, too, right after she was finished hunting down Vinny McDogbreath. Take out the biggest obstacles first.

Now, how was she going to get to the forest? Well, the airship was out. Cid was still pretty steamed about her spray-painting it in her eternal quest for chocolatey goodness. Chocobos? She'd need a gold one, and they took literally _months_ of breeding. Firstly she didn't have time, and secondly there was altogether too much inbreeding involved in standard chocobo theories. Submarine? Uh, no. Seasickness is bad enough when you're on the top and you have the edge of a boat to barf off of. If she threw up in the sub, it'd take her ages to clean the damn thing out.

Okay, so maybe it _wasn't_ a good idea to go chasing across entire continents to find an emo who liked playing with guns and ask him for some candy. In fact, when she put it like that, she was almost motivated enough to go out and buy her own chocolate. Almost.

_-Of Pyjamas-_

When White Day finally rolled around, she woke up to find a package on her door, with a note written in the most elaborate handwriting known to man placed on top.

"_Reeve says that if I give you chocolate, you'll stop calling my phone. I hold my end of the bargain fulfilled."_

_Vincent_

For a moment, she allowed a slightly idiotic smile to creep over her face. Then, in the true spirit of the moment, she picked up the phone, dialled Vincent's number, and told him it'd take two boxes at least before she shut up.

Exploitation. It was almost as sweet as the chocolate.

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A/N: Just a little indirect story here. Another chapter late because of problems with FF net.


	113. OPAIH: The Musical

A/N: Okay, I'm going to elaborate and explain a little with this one. The prompt is to do a 'musical' episode; obviously, I can't make music play itself from the page. However, I can make lyrics to well known songs, and tell you to go and listen/correlate words to melodies. By doing this, I maintain it's a musical, placing me in direct competition with, among others, House and The Simpsons.

...Well, I _say_ I can make lyrics. Truth is, there are two things I know nothing about: music, and poetry. Music, they say, is just bad poetry, but I'm still pretty far up the creek, if you know what I mean. Still, I gave it a shot, possibly ruining a nice song for you in the process. Oh well.

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Disclaimer: Why does it have to be _bees_?

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Cloud's kids were...special cases. Most found real homes after the Incident, helped by the publicity Cloud generated. Tifa said he'd cried to see them go, although Vincent could no more imagine the once ex-SOLDIER crying than he could imagine Barret writing an Ode To Shinra. However, as the team very quickly learned, bonds, once forged, were harder to shatter than a few hundred miles and a set of new, affluent parents.

Illness was the hub of their little network. Cloud had shared one thing with all the orphans he took care of: Geostigma. He, tall and nihilistic, felt no lasting after effects from the disease; it was just one of many incarnations of evil that he had overcome. However, his friends were not so lucky. Being orphaned, having a deadly disease, the ministrations of Kadaj, Loz and Yazoo, being taken away from Cloud's centre of strong stability- all had taken their toll on the youngsters, physically and mentally. Now, he shared something else with them: the fragility of a damaged mind.

It was something Vincent also shared.

The Deepground Incident had shaken long held beliefs about who he was, and what he needed to do with his life. Almost his entire past had been rewritten in front of him. He had come out better, in the end, but had lost any stability he once claimed to have had. Freed from the haze of depression and apathy that had dogged him thus far, he felt everything more directly, as if the sensations had been somehow amplified. He looked out from his window and saw a world still dying; rather than the bitter distaste of irony in his mouth he once would have felt, it was pity that scored his emotions, pity stronger than he had ever known. It scared him.

Cloud's youngsters- the feeble, the fragile, the _strong_- had, in the light of their trauma, developed a collective phobia of ever being ill again. Cloud understood. Any time one of 'his kids' fell sick, he would silently climb onto Fenrir and set off across the desert, leaving Tifa with a knowing smile and the knowledge that, as men went, he was one in a million.

This time, it hadn't helped.

By the time he had arrived, it was too late. The child was already alone, deep in the grip of fever. Cloud, for all his power, was no doctor. All he could do was look over the hospital bed and talk, in his calm way, offering what he hoped was comfort. He talked non-stop, taking breaks only when sleep slammed the shutters of his eyes, and his voice slurred with tiredness.

"I'm worried, Vincent..." Yuffie said, biting her lip. She'd visited the child's family, told them Cloud had arrived. On some level, she felt responsible. Why had the child caught sick in _her_ Wutai?

"Yes," he replied. The words didn't come. They so rarely did when he needed them. Despite being of fine health himself, he felt- isolated, by his inability to comfort.

"Not just about the kid, but about Cloud. Have you felt his forehead? I think he might have caught the fever..." she said, looking over at the man slumbering in the chair next to the bed. His head was drooped, shoulders curved.

"It's only fatal to children," Vincent replied almost instantly, and kicked himself just as fast. Some comfort _that_ was.

"Vincent. You're tired too. Get some rest," she said. He grimaced. He knew that, no matter what he said, Yuffie would be up all night, looking after Cloud and the child with an expression that was almost maternal, and wondering if her own mother had ever felt like that.

He nodded, but made other plans. He would eschew sleep, and settle for coffee. He had had enough sleep to last him a lifetime; if he could not comfort, then he could at least watch over them.

Stood in the hospital cafeteria and sighing as the bitter smell of hot coffee floated towards him, he was grateful for small pleasures.

When he got back, he hesitated at the door. Yuffie was singing. Her voice wasn't powerful and she was far from the best, but he had always respected her little tunes and melodies as things that made her who she was. _You are only the song that you sing under your breath,_ he thought, knowing he was wrong but didn't bother to collect himself. Instead, he just listened as she sang, the words floating through the door in the moonlight.

_Well, I am what I always wanted to be  
But I know  
You want something different from me  
But you want all of the wrong things  
The outs, instead of ins  
And you know, you're a little wrong  
In the things that you see  
But you've got me_

_Don't hope for a resurrection  
We gotta find a new direction  
And maybe life's not how  
You meant it to be  
Well you know  
It won't bother me_

She stood up, and, taking one last look at the man and child sleeping fitfully in the room, walked out, crashing into Vincent and spilling coffee all down her top. She blushed.

"What? Gotta problem with me singing an old Wutaian lullabye?" she said hotly.

"No," he smiled. "I don't."

"Pff. Come on, Vince. I know you're trying to act all cool after you caught me being soppy, but you're a really bad actor," she smirked. "Go get some more coffee, dork. I've got another verse to get through."

"Ah. I was under the impression I was _your_ dork," he replied.

"You're everyone's dork, but mine especially," she said fondly. "Now, coffee. Chop chop!"

He smiled. There it was- the whimsical nature he'd learned to adore. It was comforting in itself. As he walked away and she began the next cheerful verse, he realised just how lucky he was compared the ones she was singing it to.

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A/N: Looks like a meaningless rabble of words, right? But if you were to read it to the tune of 'Descendent Of Shinobi', you'd find it...that it's still entirely meaningless, but at least it goes with the tune. Obviously, the second little segment is the chorus.

On a side note, this was the third consecutive chapter I couldn't post on schedule due to errors on FF net.


	114. Serendipity

A/N: This prompt came from Kaeris Von Kaze. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: What can run a thousand miles and still burn down a barrister's wig?

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There were some days when good luck was hard to come by.

On days like that, the coin would always land on the other side, the toast would always burn, and Yuffie Kisaragi would always burst out of your cupboard carrying as much cutlery as humanely possible.

Well, maybe not the third one. That happened most days, lucky or not.

Of course, luck was a great problem for Cloud, in that most of his was bad. As he'd found out, to his cost, necking a whole ton of Luck Sources didn't actually provide good luck. It just made the upswings and downswings a lot more noticeable. On a good day, he'd find five thousand gil, happen across a bunch of flowers just perfect for Tifa, and sink into his beanbag (they tended to be a lot more comfortable when you wore three cow's worth of leather, and were less expensive to replace when punctured by swords, forks and other miscellaneous sharp objects) with a quiet but contented smile.

On a bad day, the local wolfhound (all two hundred pounds of it) decided that he was a blue and yellow fire hydrant, Fenrir would break down after falling off of only _one_ cliff, and then there was the whole Yuffie-bursting-out-of-the-cupboard thing. And he had a lot of bad days.

Still, today seemed like a good day. That sentence probably should have ended with an until and an ominous pause, but it didn't. There was an utter lack of luck-related drama, a coincidence which hadn't happened since he got wasted on ghasyl liquor and necked all those Luck Sources. And it made him incredibly, incredibly paranoid.

Of course, as Cloud spent the rest of an entirely peaceful day looking for monsters in his own shadow, he had forgotten the cardinal rule of luck: it rubs off on people. And, like other things that could rub off on people (such as soap and bad manners), it could be _stolen_.

At three o' clock that afternoon, Yuffie Kisaragi, stealer of cupcakes, cutlery and and frankly anything else she could get her hands on, learnt very well the less amusing face of serendipity.

It had been an intensely lucky day for her thus far. She'd snuck into Barret's house and made off with a set of incredibly disgusting cufflinks (for what? He didn't exactly make a habit of wearing shirts anyway) without so much as running into a suit-wearing oil flunky or leaving sticky footprints in the men's bathroom. She'd visited Cid's house and made off with what may have been a pot of hair gel, prime blackmail material when the prospective owner was, by far, the wrong side of eighteen. And, she had polished off her run with a ransacking of Vincent's fridge that was, quite frankly flawless.

And here, galloping back over the hills to prove that Luck has a sense of humour, came that 'until'.

There had been no warning to say that her luck had changed. One moment, she was staring at a fridge so full of chocolate gateuax that she was _sure_ it was breeding. Somehow, she could sort of imagine monsters being made of dessert. (It turned out that Vincent, usually being of austere tastes, had looked into tasting the cake, and, after being told to expect a cake exactly one-hundredth the size of the one advertised, had bought rather a lot of it.)

The next moment, she heard the tell-tale sound of a key hitting a lock. Vincent was home, and he would Not Be Amused to find her casually helping herself to the contents of his fridge.

Having forgotten her escape plan at about the time she wrote her biology paper on the mating of sweet, frozen foodstuffs in the back of Vincent's fridge, Yuffie thought on her feet and remembered that there was a window in Cloak'n'Claw's bathroom. Without thinking overmuch of the consequences, she promptly threw herself out of it.

This, as it turned out, was Not A Good Plan, partially because Vincent's abode in Kalm was on the second floor, but mainly because the window itself was made for letting _steam_ escape and not, strangely, bored cat-burglars.

Up until that point, Yuffie's misfortunes could be said to be her own fault. Now, Luck took its course with great force.

Having thrown herself out of a window too small to accommodate her and two stories off the ground, it was questionable whether Yuffie's clothes snagging on the lock was good luck or bad luck. On one hand, it delayed her escape; on the other, it prevented a nasty case of what she termed 'splatty death'. However, it was very bad luck indeed that it was her _shorts_ that snagged- the shorts she wore with the fly unbuttoned and which had some play in them. This was useful in a battle situation as it allowed unobstructed movement.

It was less useful in a window-escape situation, because she slipped out of them and ended up hanging upside down, her feet caught in her shorts and her her pants on show, two stories up and in the window of Vincent Valentine's apartment.

Luck, however, decided to rub off- on the man standing directly outside with a camera. Whatever Yuffie thought she was doing in Vincent's window with her knickers on show, it would fetch _quite _a sum from the local paper. Good fortune smiled on that gentleman.

And immediately frowned again when Vincent, generally a chivalrous soul when not shooting people in the head, rushed downstairs after hearing the commotion in the street, saw a man taking pictures of Yuffie in her undergarments, and decided that the situation could be improved with some light gunfire.

He had just about dispersed the crowd when Yuffie's luck changed and her feet slipped out of her shorts, allowing her to come gracefully crashing down upon him and make a quick, if less than dignified, getaway.

Vincent scratched his head, and put it to fickle fortune. He decided that, next chance he got, he would visit some _negative_ serendipity on Yuffie Kisaragi- and he would be leaving the pity at home.

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A/N: Had to change my plans last-minute as I didn't _really_ want to infringe the copyright of a poet. They make less money than people think, y'know.

And...connect four! Another chapter I couldn't post on time due to FF net errors.


	115. Book Of Secrets II

A/N: This prompt goes to Lethe Erisdottir, and is a continuation of Book Of Secrets. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: 404 Not Found.

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He awoke like a volcano, sweat pouring down his forehead and eyes dilated in the darkness. Yuffie remained asleep. Her ninja senses, honed like a wild animal's, had long ago stopped regarding Vincent as a threat. He brushed a hand across his face; the hair stuck to his scalp in a way he didn't recall and didn't like.

He had remembered his father.

It was strange how the memories always came in dreams. Things his waking mind could not consider always dredged themselves up as he slept. Perhaps it was all his years in the coffin, locked in a sleep that was more concious than he had ever been when awake. Perhaps it was merely coincidence.

He could remember his father- the strong jaw, the large hands, the quiet voice- but the rest was all myth. He knew, objectively, how Grimoire had died; Shelke had told him. But, somehow, that truth was never _complete_ enough, never real enough, and fought against the shadowy myths and suspicions he had conjured over the years.

Because, contrary to what others may have believed, his time within that dark place, with his own breath stifling against the wood that sealed him, had not been a time of idle thought. It had been a time of endless and active contemplation, of many thoughts coming and departing, in a way that only Cloud (a man who had had the entirety of the Lifestream beat against his mind) had ever fully understood.

Bits and pieces of his past were shrouded, uncertain. Some resonated with the name 'Grimoire'. Vincent did not, for example, know exactly how or why he entered the Turks. He had thought perhaps he did it to track down news of his father's death. Other times, he had thought the reason was base greed. In other shadowy dreams, he had been alone, scared and friendless in the city of Midgar, and a man in a blue suit saw in him the potential...

How had Grimoire's disappearance affected him? He could not even begin to tell. What had he done when his father died? Had he howled, cried? Broken down into tears? Or was that the day his mouth set in the grim smile, and his hand began to never stray from his gun?

He took a deep breath. It was foolishness to drown in that mire. Not here, not in his own bedroom. There was blackness, but it was of the blinds; there was heat and breath, but it came from the ninja who lay beside him. There was no purpose in going back to that place, even if only in his mind.

Coffee.

The familiar sounds and motions of making the coffee calmed him, as did the wan light from the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator held silence at bay. This was a better place to think.

His father.

He could not dispel the conviction that Grimoire had been a kind man. No one with that quiet voice, lacking so utterly in menace but not in strength, could have been cruel at the core. He half-remembered a dozen times when, hurt as a child, he had wandered into his fathers arms, which seemed as wide as the ocean then; he could not think what had happened to his mother, but he did not want for her whilst his father was near.

His father had worn glasses, he remembered. Were it not for Hojo's experiments, it was likely that he himself would need glasses; as a Turk, his eyesight was the least sharp of all his senses. The old man had changed frames often; sometimes he had worn half-moons, others he wore square glasses. But it was always so he could better pore through some manuscript or another.

His recollections ended; the lucidity his dreams brought him had long expired. Sighing, he decided to return to bed. As he stood up, he heard Yuffie's footsteps on the stairs- no doubt she had noticed his absence.

"Oh, hey, Vince. Whassamatter?" she said fuzzily, brushing the sleep from one eye with her wrist.

"Nothing, Yuffie. I swear it," he said, and realised he had gone too far.

"You've been dreaming again, huh..." she said, sitting down at the table. "Care to share?"

"...It's of no importance. Just a few recollections of my father...they took me by surprise, I suppose."

"Actually, I was talking about the coffee, but fine," she winked. He managed a fluttering smile, like a candle.

"It's strange...I did not even think of my father until recently," he carried on.

"Why not?"

"..."

She smiled ruefully. Her blunt questions were no good at this kind of thing. He needed some zen master or something like that to make him ask the questions to himself.

"...It is a strange thought. I have no father. After Hojo, I had never given thought to it, I suppose."

She shook her head. He raised an eyebrow.

"'Course you have a father. You've got mine."

He waited a second, to let things sink in.

"...Yuffie. If you are suggesting we get married, that was not the greatest proposal I have ever heard," he half-joked.

"Pah. And how many girls have proposed to you? Wait, don't answer that. I don't even wanna _know_ what you got up to back before I was kicking about. Anyway, point is, you're as good as my family, and you can share my dad. Hell knows, I don't want him. At least, not _all_ of him."

He smiled, and she smiled back. She was a terrible liar, and they both knew it.

"Well, then. You had better tell me the exploits of my new father, then," he smirked.

They talked until long after the coffee had run out, and the golden dawn spilled over the horizon and into the tiny kitchen.

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A/N: Huh. Somehow, I really like this. I couldn't say why.

And this is the fifth chapter that errors in FF net waylaid. Honestly, it's pretty annoying.


	116. Isotope

A/N: Phew. This one's from me, kept short and sweet. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: My lawyer is a pretty cool guy who doesn't afraid of anything.

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It's strange to her, that people can have such great similarities and yet she treated them so differently, like they were different isotopes of the same atom in a chemistry lab.

Take Vincent and Rufus, for example. Both gunmen, both cold and methodical, and both barely reformed sinners. And yet, because of a few inches in height and some rogue ginger hair, she treated them completely differently. (Another difference was that Rufus had tried to murder their friends, although she swore Vince had come pretty close on occasion).

And she wonders, sometimes, why such small details have to make such a big difference. Why can't everyone just love one another? Why can't they all get along?

"The sad truth, Yuffie," he said gently, "Is that, like anything, if love was free and easy to obtain, it would have no value. People would not be prepared to work for it."

"I'd work for it," she protested.

"Yuffie, you are not prepared to work for _anything_," he says, rolling his red eyes dramatically.

"Hey, I already worked for what I got. Besides," she winks, "When you're a thief, everything's free."

To prove her point, she steals a kiss. And he has little to say to _that. _

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A/N: Well, I have no prompts and I haven't been able to update, so I'll just chill out until I can update again.

**Edit**: Finally, I can put this (and the previous chapters) up! Phew. I'll be working on the OPAIH oneshot (One Missed Call) soon. I've completely forgotten where I was in regards to answering reviews, so I might take a day or two to get around to it. Time to organise again...


	117. Noctiluca

A/N: This prompt goes to Jesus Creiss. Thanks! (By the way, yes, I did have to google this. I basically just picked a random definition/creature that popped up. As revenge, you're getting some weirdo fantasy/AU stuff for this chapter.)

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Another Musical Disclaimer: It's a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phoney as it can be; but it wouldn't be copyright infringement if you'd believe in me.

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There was once a world, a long, long time ago and at least thirty-two galaxies away, which was marked by a distinct lack of giant monsters (save for the ones under the sea), planet altering scuffles (apart from a couple of wars which apparently involved nearly the entire planet) and massive icecaps which you could snowboard down (apart from ones at the top and bottom poles of the planet). It would come as no surprise that, in this strange and alarmingly dissimilar world, there was a strange creature known as _Pelagia noctiluca, _or, for those of us less versed in the bestiaries of foreign and barbarian locales, the mauve stinger, a type of jellyfish.

The mauve stinger in question was known either as Steve (a highly shortened form of 'sstungme) or a name completely unpronounceable by the pathetic tongues of humans but easily said by even the most stupid dolphins (if anyone ever listened to them, which no one did, because even fish do not trust a creature that smiles when beating off sharks to protect its young). And, on a day of no importance, Steve found himself transported to another world, in much the same fashion as hundreds of fanfiction writers wished would happen to them.

However, sadly, whilst he was transported to another world, and this world happened to be rather interesting, he was, in fact, transported to fifty miles above sea level on a Saturday night, in such a fashion as a lot of fanfiction writers wished would happen to a lot of _other_ fanfiction writers. Steve, in his brainless shock, had just enough time to begin to glow in the dark before he splattered into one thousand and fifty-three mauve pieces on the ground. Steve died as he had lived: without a centralised nervous system, and therefore unaware of the existential uncertainties surrounding him. Truly, he should be envied.

"Vince, have you seen this?" she asked, prodding a tentacle with a stick. It still glowed. She was of the opinion a shooting star, flaring dully through the night sky, had actually crashed into the beach. A very squishy shooting star.

"Yes, Yuffie. I have. Because there is a large strand of it hanging from your bikini," he said tonelessly. She shrugged and tugged what had once been a sucker from the small gap between her breasts. She turned it this way and that, and decided to put it back until it stopped glowing. She liked the effect.

"I know, but don't you know what this _means_? A shooting star crashed into the Planet. And _nothing. Happened._"

"Fortunate."

"No, it's not. It calls our entire quest into question. If Meteor was just a big bowl of pudding that glowed in the dark, we needed have bothered stopping it. Gawd, all that time, and Sephiroth was assaulting us with an after-dinner treat. I bet he's laughing in his grave, or whatever he's rolling around in nowadays," she said, biting her lip.

Vincent took a closer look at the strange Meteor. In all honesty, he had seen more threatening after dinner treats, most of which had lived in Cid's icebox. He was terminally unimpressed.

"Indeed. I am most disappointed with myself for taking such a threat seriously."

"Oh, gawd. Not now, Vince. I don't need to go on Noose patrol. I need to work out if this thing was sent by aliens to kill us," she groaned. "Looks too cute to be an intergalactic missile, but hell, that's what they said about those weird PuPu things we got popping up all over the place last month."

"I still contend that the PuPu were merely fragments of a dead man's dreams," he replied.

"Yeah, you and the rest of the internet. What're we gonna tell Cloud? He's going to be so disappointed. _Sorry, you defeated the ultimate evil, but it turns out he was just giving us a massive bowl of jelly._ Honestly, what will we tell him next? That the Masamune was made of cake?"

"That, Yuffie, would be a lie."

The jellyfish, humble as it was, was calling all they had fought for into question. Something had to be done.

Yuffie bought a drink. Actually, three. And another three for everyone else on the Costal Del Sol beach. When everyone was drunk enough to forget her actions, Yuffie discreetly gathered up the bits and tossed them, still glowing, into the ocean, where later they would be mistaken by overzealous environmental protesters as mako leakage, causing a massive media storm and eventual taxes on pretty much everything.

In one thousand and fifty three mauve, glowing pieces, Steve's legacy lived on. The death of a jellyfish, no matter how poorly explained, is never truly in vain. This is one of the few universal truths that can be transferred from one strange world to another.

Another is that strange things often happen for no reason. But it keeps a lot of people in steady jobs.

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A/N: My apologies. I felt the need for a curveball response to this prompt. I've been reading James Joyce's Ulysses; that's probably why. Also, try and count the obscure references in this chapter. It amused me to put them in.


	118. Right Hook, Left Jab, Dodge

A/N: This prompt comes from Szahara again. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Save the forests. Eat computers.

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Light on her feet and on the tips of her toes, her stance was almost prosodic in beauty. Yuffie was the Queen of the fighters in the southpaw style, punctuating her argument with bleeding knuckles and a jaw welded shut. Right hook, left jab, and then the dodge- poetry in motion. There was Zen there, in the poise and control she exercised over her own strength, the tiger prowling the cage of its own creation.

However, for all Yuffie's expertise with her fists, she was still inexperienced at bar-room brawling, and was not fully cognisant of the many useful applications of a chair in such a situation. As it turned out, one of those applications was 'beating Yuffie Kisaragi upside the head'.

Yuffie went down, flailing her arms like an orangutan, all grace and poise forgotten. Her knees decided that, actually, paper was a very nice material, and that they should emulate it in every way. And whilst her hands scrabbled desperately for purchase, her feet merely yawned and lazily let her slip.

Vincent sighed and got out of his chair.

A Turk knows how to win a bar fight. This is one of the indisputable facts of life, and yet, also one of its mysteries. There is no bar fight training on the Turk resume; one can only assume that the fabled blue suit is actually a highly efficient data transfer device, and anyone who wears it receives the secrets of bar fight mastery.

With movements no faster than they needed to be, he swept his leg under the chair next to him. Obligingly, the chair soared to head-height beside him, spinning like a gyroscope. Lazily, he plucked it from the air by a leg, planted all his weight on his leading foot and tossed it across the bar as Odin would toss a javelin. It hit Yuffie's assailant in the head, and would have killed him if it hadn't split into fragments upon impact, thus lessening the force. Nevertheless, the man dropped quite as convincingly as if he'd been shot.

The room quivered.

Here, too, was poetry; a single man, who, with small and controlled movements, defeated an entire room of people. And they were defeated, because they knew they could not win against someone so capable. Here was Yuffie's main mistake, he thought grimly: the first should always be the one you make an example of.

"You're a jerk, Vincent Valentine," Yuffie seethed, when anyone with sense had shuffled out of the bar with their eyes kept firmly on Vincent's hands. "I almost had them."

"Indeed you did, Yuffie. But you need to work on chair technique. You might also try striking more suddenly-"

She took his advice, and planted a straight that would have felled Barret in his upper abdomen. He grunted, but had tensed his stomach at the last moment and stayed standing. She gave him a rueful grin.

"You're right. Seems to work."

"...Hmp. I see you were pulling your punches in the fight," he said, rubbing his stomach.

She smirked back. "Don't get sore, Vince. I was only playin'."

He shook his head and laughed. "But of course. This is family-oriented fun in comparison to last week's brawl."

"Yup. A nice family outing, complete with exercise and snacks," she said absently, taking a few peanuts from the overturned snack bowl.

"One last thing about your technique in regards to bar fights, Yuffie."

"Yup?"

"I find that, generally, once you are sure there is to be a fight, it goes better if you are the one starting it," he said.

"So, start more bar fights. I'll keep that in mind," she replied with a wink.

He smiled. It was wrong, but it was fun, and there was poetry in that, too. _Never forget the small __joys of adrenaline_, he admonished himself. _The craving would only escape in other ways_.

"Now, Yuffie," he said carefully, "I suggest we, as _you_ might say, 'split', preferably before Tifa returns and finds out we have wrecked the Seventh Heaven. That is one bar fight I could stand to avoid."

"You and me both," she shuddered. "Although, I think she'd give me a hell of a crash course on my jab."

"If by 'crash', you are referring to the sound you will make when she smashes you through the wall, then certainly," he smirked, moving sharply out of the door. Yuffie scooped up another handful of peanuts and followed, throwing one at his head every so often. He brushed them away, smiling darkly.

It wouldn't do to turn up at the next bar with peanuts in his hair.

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A/N: An experiment with writing a small fight scene in a very laid-back way. Also, an excuse to have a bar fight.


	119. Just Laughter

A/N: This one goes out to Drill-Pill. (Sorry if I've skipped any requests- I'm disorganised right now. I'll get around to answering those reviews soon, I promise!)

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Disclaimer: You have the bit of Law and Order that no one likes. I've got the Turks. Bring it on.

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Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. Of all the things he wanted Yuffie to have grown out of in the unlikely event they entered into a meaningful relationship, that was number two. (The first was the casual theft of undergarments, a habit which she has also not grown out of.) He could not imagine, when he first joined AVALANCHE, that he would ever be romantically involved with someone who laughed like that.

He is aware of the crushing metaphorical importance of this. It means that, every single time he has reassured her that he adores everything about her, he was lying. And Yuffie, despite being a pinnacle of petty theft, does not like it when he lies, and usually greets even the smallest of falsehoods with a great deal of violence and shouting. However, the revelation that he does not love everything about her will inform her that love is not, in fact, perfect.

The first rule in Yuffie's relationships: Love Is Perfect, And Any Argument Will Result In Naked Pictures All Over The Internet. This is a rule he has learned by harsh experience.

So, he merely ruminates on her laugh every time he hears it. And he hears it a lot. Yuffie finds mirth in a great many things, vast swathes of which are beyond his comprehension, like chat shows and the word 'pong'. His appreciation of the laugh varies. At some times, it is nothing more than a foible; at other times, his most fervent wish is to take her lockpicks and see if he can burst his eardrums with them.

However, there is one occasion on which he is darkly delighted to hear Yuffie's laughter. It usually occurs when he is sitting several seats away in the corner cafe. This can happen for any number of reasons, such as 'Gawd, Vince, cinnamon swirls? Get them outta my face or I'll steal them without even realising it', or, alternatively, 'EW. Work. I refuse to be seen in public with that...that...work. Off you trot, buster.'

This, coupled with Yuffie's youthful beauty, is the universal code for 'Are Ya Feeling Lucky, Punk?' And, invariably, some poor fool is. He feels sorry for the quiet ones, the stammerers and romantics, who think naively that in the summer heat, they are the only ones for whom love's torch was lighted. His sympathy lies less with the braggarts, who merely attempt to woo her with swagger and stupidity. Her answer, however, remains the same.

"You see that guy? Over there? The one with the huge metal claws, the leather clothes and that _oh_-so p-oh'd look on his face? Yeah, I'm dating him. He's kinky. I haven't asked yet, 'cause it's kinda awkward, but I think he's a masochist. Likes pain. He likes guns, too- see the one on the thigh holster? Anyway, if you _really_ wanna get with me, go over and convince him for me, will ya? I hear he's open to a reasoned debate, so long as you tread lightly and never stand in his direct eyeline. He already heard you asking me out, so you don't even have to introduce the topic! Have _fuuuun!_"

This is the point where the Punk Feels Less Lucky, and beats a strategic retreat. Accompanied by what is, for the three or four seconds afterwards, the sweetest sound he has ever cared to hear.

"Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk..."

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A/N: Because it's human nature to enjoy it when someone fails to poach your significant other due to pure cowardice. Or something like that.


	120. The Art Of Getting Drunk

A/N: Another from Drill-Pill. (I'm relaxing my usual no-two-prompts-from-the-same-person-in-a-row rule because, frankly, I don't know what's going on at the moment.) Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: Remember, kids. Alcohol stunts your growth, and your wallet. Trust me, you'll feel the second part more.

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There was a clock ticking gloomily in the corner, framed by a walnut-coloured cabinet that was more rot than wood. The clock itself was pristine, and seemed to suffer for it; an army of clowns could not have cheered up its mournful beat. Opposite it, on the stool second from the left, Yuffie Kisaragi slumped over the bar, and drank.

It had shocked her, that she freely admitted. She'd always been the instigator, the catalyst, the brass-boned _fire-starter_ of the two. For him to just get up and walk away? Ridiculous. He hadn't even given her a reason, and that was the worst thing. It could have been any one of a thousand things she might or might not have done, and all she had left to do without Vince to entertain her was to sit at the bar and puzzle them all out. The clock ticked away morosely behind her, and she took another sip. Reason six-two-one down, only a virtual infinity to go...

What the hell did he think he was doing walking out on her, anyway? She was meant to be the dumper, not the dump-ee. And hadn't she given up so much of her time and effort for him? Making him smile, teaching him how to talk to people without terrifying them, drawing her fingertips across his cool and saying that, if you can feel that, Vince, why the hell shouldn't you be able to feel happiness, feel love? What a tool, she thought, and the anger tasted weak and false in her mouth.

In her heart of hearts, she knew. Everything she'd given him was the very reason he'd left. Like a wolf brought in from the rain, her gentle caress and the delights of human company had eventually left him toothless. His sinewy muscles had begun to atrophy, and it was not a serene, gentle decay like he had always assumed it would be, but a terrifying realisation that he couldn't do today what he had done yesterday. There was to be no gentle slope down into a family life, no nonchalant erosion of a killer instinct that was no longer required. The killer instinct would always be required, because so much of _him_ had been built around it. His personality was like scaffolding clinging precariously to a building, a building that was being worn away under him by rain and time and wind...

She took another drink.

It wasn't about what she'd given him. Not really. Everything she had, he could have kept; all she could give, he would receive. It was what he'd given her that really irked her. Her childhood had been a whirl of action, from ninja training to the invasion of Wutai and straight on through her own futile resistance of the Shinra company. His gift to her had been quiet. He taught her how to appreciate it, how to seek it, and finally how to cultivate it in herself. And because she could find quiet within her own self, here she was: sat on a barstool and knocking back another glass, instead of hunting down Vincent Valentine's scraggly-haired ass and dragging him back by the scruff of the neck. Just as he'd been weakened by her influence, she'd been diluted by his.

She tipped back her glass, and drained the last dregs.

"Same again?" Tifa asked cautiously, rubbing a rag around a glass with a sympathetic eye.

She looked at the empty glass, and she looked at the door. She was the catalyst, she was instigator. And it was about time she started the fire.

"One for the road, Teef. Might not be back for a while," she said with a wan grin.

"If you say so, Yuff..." Tifa nodded, and reached for a clean glass.

Tifa's clock still ticked in its insatiably gloomy way, in the walnut cabinet that was consumed by rot. Once, the wood had been strong, but it had decayed. That was always the way. The cabinet was rotten, she was a fire kept under a bowl and Vincent was a domesticated wolf. There was a soft clink, and a glass slid across the bar and landed in front of Yuffie. It was full of milk. She downed it, quicker than she had the last, and got to her feet.

Vincent had gone, gone to get in touch with the wild, murderous part of himself. If she brought him back, he'd just weaken and crumble before her eyes. She couldn't bring him home...so the only thing she could do was follow him out there, into the wilderness, and make damn sure he found whatever it was he was looking for. And if that involve dropping some boulders on his head, kidnapping him, tying him up and generally proving herself his greatest rival, then so much the better.

The art of getting drunk wasn't one she'd mastered. But when it came to hunting Vincent Valentine, there was no one better. With that in mind, she walked from the bar, and with every step, the fire she had started blazed a little higher.

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A/N: I don't know. I really don't.


	121. Gold Piece On A Watch Chain

A/N: This is one of my prompts, and an AU. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: My sources say there are no lawyers who indulge in reading fanfiction.

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He'd always had a fear of being buried alive. They said it never, ever happened, but something, memories from a past life, perhaps, told him it was a terrible thing. Of course, he didn't need the memories. Possessed of a vivid imagination for the macabre (and many other neuroses, he suspected), he had no trouble forming a perfectly rational basis for his fear.

A day at work. The walk home. A careless driver. A flight, and a fall. Every joint aching. A burning in his nose. Darkness; sightless eyes. Sound, sound, sound, everywhere. Silence, punctuated by murmurs and beeps. _Experimental procedures._ A brief, terrifying flash of conciousness: a masked face, framed by a halo of light, and holding a bloody knife. More darkness; a damaged mind. Grand voices, making speeches: _He would have wanted us to be happy..._

The sensation of falling, like in an elevator. The sound of earth being shovelled into a grave. And silence, once more.

All so quickly, it had changed for him.

Later, he was to find out he had been hit by a motorcyclist. They assumed the driver was a punk; he had distinctive spiky hair, and was being followed by an entire gang. He'd been crossing the road at the wrong time. His body was hit with such force that he flew. No one knew what had happened to the motorcyclist. He'd lain there, bleeding from the head, until the ambulance came (far too slowly). At hospital, they found the worst case scenario: brain damage. He'd spent most of his time comatose; he'd narrowly dodged having his life support switched off by waking up and screaming every so often. Starved for options, the surgeons tried a pioneering technique, the specifics of which he was never to ask the details of, sure that the thought of people rearranging his brain manually would disgust him.

They assumed it had failed, and, assuming him brain dead, turned off the life support. From there on out, a trail of denials, accusations and petty hospital politics shrouded the administration mistake that had led to him being pronounced dead whilst still alive.

This was all to come; but at that moment, locked in his coffin, he had never known worse terror. If his brain, crushed in the accident and put back together by the surgeons, had not been damaged, his mind now was. He grew unsure of whether his eyes were open or not, whether he could hear scrabbling from underneath, at the sides, on the lid. Paranoia, the seeping killer, claimed him. It would never let him go, for as long as it lived.

He was saved by a combination of pure luck, avarice and callousness.

In his will (made beforehand, on a particularly rainy day), he had asked to be buried with a gold piece attached to his watch-chain. It was dignified, he thought, and traditional. Long-buried knowledge of mythology said it would pay the boatman of the Styx, and he had no desire to be left on the wrong side if it turned out that the Greeks _were_ correct.

Watching his burial was a small girl, sylphlike and fay. No one had noticed her as her hungry eyes gleamed from behind the gravestones. She'd run away from her father, without a penny to her name. And in that modern day and age, no one even suspected there might be a grave-robber in their midst...

In the coffin, the scrabbling he was almost completely and utterly sure he was imagining increased in volume. And kept increasing. He ignored it, as cheerfully as one can when one is being devoured by paranoia in a box six feet underground. This, evidently, annoyed his imagination, as it promptly changed the sound to the cracking of wood, which was far harder to successfully ignore. He managed it, however, by counting the number of breaths he had taken and estimating how long it would take him to die from suffocation (the answer was, of course, 'within the next fifteen seconds'. That kind of situation has the effect of making your ability to estimate levels of oxygen wildly inaccurate). Then, as a final trump, he imagined the lid of the coffin being opened with a crowbar, and seeing a small, unwashed girl standing above him and staring into his eyes.

There was only a small amount of screaming, and most of it was not from him. The next feeling to flood his mind was gratitude.

An understanding was reached at the local coffee shop (which they had to flee from afterwards, as no one had the sense to bury him with his wallet). After beating down the door of his own house, and scaring some of his less scrupulous relatives who had moved into it with great haste, he immediately decorated one room pink. The girl swiftly redecorated it green and stuck her tongue out at him, and the condition was set; he now shared his house with a bratty, annoying teenager, who hogged the toilet and would often set traps in the living room for him. He was happy to be alive, un-suffocated and relatively worm-free; she was happy to be off the streets and fed. Things had worked out, largely for the better.

He never did find where she put his gold piece, though.

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A/N: This was just a very loosely plotted AU, made to amuse myself. I'm aware it's somewhat rubbish; I couldn't even contemplate fitting all the detail needed into a short piece.  
Edit: Had to be posted late, due to problems with FF net affecting me. Also, I'm out of prompts. (To whoever suggested 'edible condoms'- sorry, but no.)


	122. Two Men In A Boat And A Ninja Afloat

A/N: This one's from Tinterheck, with the overly long title supplied by me. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: There are three little words that everyone needs to hear once in a while. Three little words that'll do funny things to your stomach and change how you view the world. Here they are: Get real, dude.

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Life is, in essence, simple. Make trouble, but don't get caught. Toilet paper should be thrown in an even coverage for most hilarity. And, for Leviathan's sake, _don't _drop your shiny new engagement ring in the goddamn lake.

Of course, this would not be a concern if she were not spying furtively on Vincent Valentine, soon to be Vincent Kisaragi. And she wouldn't be spying on him if he weren't rowing, in a boat, across a lake, talking to her goddamn dad.

Luckily, she's not afraid of lakes. And one of the few ninja lessons she didn't skip was the one on how to breath underwater for hours on end, because, let's face it, that's a pretty bitchin' party trick. (Same goes for the whole 'climbing up sheer walls and hanging from the ceiling' thing. Also, great for avoiding people when they're annoyed. Some people just don't look up.)

Staying a little further away than usual, since her dad knew every ninja trick in the book, she followed the little rowboat as it went across the lake, desperately trying to hear what they were talking about.

Vincent and her dad talking _properly_ (as opposed to with her in the room, wreaking havoc whenever a compromising topic popped up) was one of her greatest fears. There was literally millions of things Godo could tell Vincent about her, all of them dangerous and most of them embarrassing. Although, she wasn't worried that old Captain Claw would get cold feet because her dad gave him the dirt- hell, if he was going to stick with her after she accidentally sawed through the main support beam of their house, he was a pretty safe bet. Her main concern was that he'd lose respect for her. Respect that she'd immediately have to re-instil, preferably with a great deal of violence and a streak of kink.

And then there was part two of the fear from hell: the thought that, in some way, shape or form, Vince and her dad might _actually_ get along. A fear that seemed to be confirmed, based on the fact that neither man had attempted to push the other out of the boat and hold their head underwater until the bubbles stopped.

The fact was, she and her old man were pretty possessive. Neither of them liked sharing. In fact, it annoyed her that they shared that. And any time Vince spent with her dad was time he didn't spend with her. She didn't like this. Her dad knew she didn't like this. And chances were, he'd use it against her.

Steeling her nerve, she swam slowly to the surface. Her head broke the water silently, and with a grace that many a model in a shampoo advert would envy. Finally, she heard what they were talking about.

"You still have not explained. How does one _utilise_ this device?" Vincent grumbled.

Godo harrumphed. "I have told you. Any man wishing to be _my_ son-in-law must learn how to fish properly. How will I show my face at the annual Family Fishing Contest if I am lumbered with a novice?"

"Then I suggest you teach me how to use the fishing rod properly," Vincent seethed. His patience was evidently wearing thin.

"Fool! Any man wishing to be _my_ son-in-law must be man enough to figure it out himself!" Godo roared, making well and truly sure that any fish in the lake were scared away. Vincent laughed, bitterly, and went back to breaking his fishing rod.

Fears abated, she allowed herself a wry grin. It didn't look like those two would be getting chummy any time soon. She allowed herself to dip beneath the water, just as Vincent got ready for his first cast.

Sadly, and in true novice style, Vincent threw his arm back too far, and the hook plopped into the water several feet behind him.

Yuffie started swimming back towards shore, aware of a strange tightness. She ignored it- probably a water weed or something.

Vincent, unperturbed, threw his arm forwards with even more enthusiasm than he had thrown it back.

_Rip_. Shocked, Yuffie decided that drinking several mouthfuls of lakewater was an excellent idea. Well, she didn't, but it made her sound less like an idiot if she pretended she meant to do it. Taking care to maintain her silence, she broke the surface of the water again and gasped for air.

"...Shorts. Yuffie's, if I'm not mistaken," she heard Vincent say. Lo and behold, there they were, attached to his hook. He held them up, bemused, for all the world (and her dad) to see.

"Yes. She's been following us for a while now, for some reason. Strange child- I didn't think she liked fishing," Godo said absently. "I'm surprised you noticed. And to actually hit her with your cast, without looking- you're not as much of a novice as you would appear, Vincent."

"Ah. Yes," Vincent agreed, and turned to look at her. "Yuffie, I hate to be an incovienience, but next time you go swimming, please leave your engagement ring in a safe place. I would hate to see it tarnished by the water."

Yuffie, however, was already swimming back, her camouflage ruined by the bright red blush that lit up her face.

"Now that that's over with," Godo said, "We can get back to talking politics. And rule number one of Wutai politics, Vincent: Keep Yuffie well away from them."

"I couldn't agree more," Vincent replied. "I am the only one allowed to catch her with her pants down, so to speak."

_Rule two of Wutai politics,_ Yuffie thought as she swam away, _What goes around comes around. And when it happens, I'm gonna make sure it comes around to you two **hard.**_

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A/N: Rule Three of Wutai Politics, is, incidentally, know where to bury the evidence. A big thanks to everyone who sent in prompts- I really appreciate it!


	123. Trail Of Insects

A/N: This one's from Jebus Criess. Thanks! (Also, sorry for using your prompt as an excuse to experiment.)

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Disclaimer: I made a deal with the devil for the rights to FFVII. Hey, I may have signed away my soul, but at least I won't lose my house.

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The webs of spiders glowered down, like silken lampshades hung in trees. They caught the rays of the waxing moon and cast shadows upon the faces of fools.

Lost they were, and lost they'd been, for five hours hence; their feet were sore, and with silent mouths they trudged through the gloom. The forest had swallowed them, and inside its belly they wandered like lost souls.

"Vincent," she said, and it had meaning; whatever his arbitrary label meant to her now, she clung to. "We need to find shelter."

"Indeed," he nodded in agreement. But saying was easy; it was finding that was hard. But find it they must, or perish; the woods were no place for sane men to spend the night.

"I can't believe he fled out here," she murmured. "Even if he was a criminal, to be so afraid of us to resign himself to _this_..."

"He may have provisions of some sort, secreted here," her companion replied. "And, Yuffie? Do not disparage the forest. You and I both know that the Planet is more aware than most realise."

"I wish it would help us, then. We've done it a few favours, in our time."

Their footsteps slowed, from a march to a tramp. Fatigue, the stalker which knew no rest, drew closer than it had yet dared. Sleep, a wild horse shod in silver, threatened to pull them away, away from the waking world with its dangers. Desperation set in.

"Vinnie, look," she breathed.

Illuminated in the wan light was a place where no spider dared spin its web; a forgotten shack, built by man and discarded into the trees. Wood, green with rot, held up a fraying roof; a door, painted scarlet long ago, beckoned. Vincent, eldritch and wise, nodded his ascent. This was where they would hide for the night.

Huddled inside for warmth and comfort, the two looked at the walls with distrustful eyes. The wood seemed alive with moss, and darkened at their intrusion; the floor creaked in sympathy, and threatened to give way. She curled up in his cloak, and they, a ball of black and red, stood guard against the green and the brown and the dark of nature's advance. They knew not whether the shelter was a blessing or a curse; whether they should trust in the constructions of man or resign themselves to the designs of nature.

The moon, uncaring and unknowing, rode across the sky regardless. It made no allowance in speed for the travellers, for all things must be equal in their way.

They huddled there, and fought the gloom with cheery whispers and stoic words. And a trail of insects marched to their door, spade-black and writhing in the moonlight, to lead them home. For the Planet saw, and knew their hearts for glass; for them, it would give way, but at the price of respect. For the webs of spiders glowered down, upon the faces of fools; and they would learn that the Planet was indeed a bountiful mother, but a ferocious one.

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A/N: Trying out some standard horror genre cliches here. I'm still not comfortable with them, so I'll try it again sometime.


	124. Equilibrium

A/N: This prompt's from SragonZ. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: When in doubt, blame Creepers.

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All it would take to destroy them is a tip of the scales.

It's a battle for dominance. They're exactly equal. The unmovable object, the irresistible force.

All it would take is a blip. A moment of weakness, a surrender, and all would turn to fire; bare palms, sweat against skin, an inferno that would burn them both out and leave them charred for the rest of time.

But she wants to _see_.

So she pushes him, waiting for him to push back. And when he does, she falls, luxuriously, and one side of the scales falls down with her.

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A/N: A drabble, because I haven't done a proper one in ages.


	125. Pythagoras' Theorem

A/N: This one's from Kitty Materia Princess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I've bought a straw hat. The internet tells me that this entitles me to a) be a pirate made of rubber and b) get summarily raped by 4Kids.

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Reno allowed himself a small smirk and pulled his designer shades a little further down over his nose so he could peer over the top of them. Yuffie looked back and waved, almost forgetting about the ice-cream she was buying.

Costa del Sol. The sound of the sea, the sting of the sun and the smell of sex in the air. One of his favourite hangouts, and not just because they got real Glacier vodka imported on the cruiser. Yup- he had to admit that the bikini babes had more than a little to do with it. And as bikini babes went, Yuffie Kisaragi was just his type- spicy, well made and oh-so-friendly for the price of an ice-cream cone. Adventurous, too. He liked that in a girl. She was just the kind of woman he could get in some serious trouble with, and that was the way he liked them.

"Thanks for the cone, Reno. Where're we off to now?" she said, padding over to him. Sand on bare feet- nice textures. He appreciated that almost as much as the tiny green swim suit she was wearing.

"Well," he drawled, and he made sure to drawl, "I was plannin' on getting into the shade, maybe a few drinks, shoot some pool with Rude...Can you shoot pool?"

"Duh. It's just balls and sticks, right? I'm Yuffie Kisaragi. I can _handle_ balls and sticks," she smirked, and he almost imagined a wink there. "Gotta tell Vince before I drop off the face of the earth, though. Wouldn't want him getting worried."

"Oh, _Valentine,_" Reno said, and made it obvious. "Why? You're not a little girl anymore. You can go where you want."

"Sure, sure. But I oughta tell him, anyway. Saves lives."

Well, what the hell. It'd probably make the old guy less suspicious if they went and told him where she'd be. Shooting some pool, drinking something over ice, and then to the good part.

"Where is the old fella?" he asked.

"On the beach, reading a book or something. Don't even _ask_ what it's about," she said, and rolled her eyes.

When they arrived at the beach (after taking a detour to play ball with the dog- chicks just _loved_ guys who were good with animals), they found Vincent in the middle of what appeared to be a _swarm_ of women. Some of them armed with sun-tan lotion and very soft fingers. Immediately, Reno's sense of envy deepened. The guy was boring, couldn't hold a decent conversation, was scary as hell and as pasty as a freshly whitewashed wall. But he _still_ got the crowds of women, and he even had Yuffie _frickin' _Kisaragi, who (rumour had it) was flexible in ways she shouldn't be.

Yuffie, however, seemed unperturbed, and made her way (with a well placed elbow or two) to the centre of the female maelstrom. He followed, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.

"Hey, Vince. Chocolate ice cream. You like?" she grinned cheekily.

Vincent took off the cheap pair of sunglasses he'd bought and fixed her with a knowing look. "Dear God, Yuffie. Please, do not remind me. At least, not in public."

"Your loss. I was gonna demonstrate to all these little girls what a real woman does behind closed doors," she sniffed. If Reno had been drinking, he would've choked. At back the back, someone was and did, spraying ice cold lemonade all over the next girl's back. A minor fight started. Vincent sighed.

"As soon as you appear, Yuffie, a fight breaks out. Sometimes, I don't know what to do with you," he said, standing up (presumably to try and straighten things out.) It was at that point that Reno noticed that, through some devilry of Yuffie's, Vincent Valentine was not wearing a top. And had abs Rude had been working his whole life to attain. He felt his chances plummet.

As he watched, Vincent forded the river of women and plucked out the one who had spat out her drink, although not before she had swallowed her own teeth. Yuffie smiled indulgently as the crowd, with one mind, became intensely jealous of whoever was lucky enough to take this man to bed at night.

"I wasn't done, Valentine," the offended party hissed. Reno turned, the bottom of his stomach dropping out. That explained why the drink spitter was now spitting out her own teeth: she'd spat her drink over _Elena._

"Yes, but I fear she might die if you continue to hit her that hard," Vincent said, with dark amusement.

"Oh. I forgot," she said absently. Ever the rookie. As Vincent calmed the masses, Elena joined Yuffie and Reno.

"Ah, Yuffie Kisaragi?" Elena asked.

"S'me."

"You've got good taste," the Turk said, crossing her arms. "Nice body, and sits on the beach reading poetry."

"He only reads it to attract idiots," Yuffie shrugged. "I dunno, it's some Turk thing. He likes to see how many women he can charm. Information gathering. I mean, I get it, but he's so _clinical._ You can see it a mile off. S'the only reason I let him do it."

"And professional? Nice," Elena replied. "Oh, hey Reno. Didn't notice you there."

"Yeah, get the feeling no one does," he said sourly.

"Don't ask me how I know," Elena said in Yuffie's ear, "But let's just say his swim trunks are a little loose around the crotch."

"_What?_ They're practically spray-painted on!"

"I know. It's _that _bad," Elena giggled. "See you back at the bar, Reno. Happy hunting!"

Yuffie turned to him, and said in a sympathetic tone, "Don't worry, Reno. I don't care how loose your trunks are."

He was humiliated, but it was kinda sweet in a way.

"You never had a chance to begin with. I was only in it for the ice cream," she winked, and crushed the wafer over his hair. "You'd get more girls if you tried to get girls less."

She walked away, leaving him with a whole afternoon with nothing to fill it.

Killing Elena would be a pretty good place to start, though.

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A/N: Just got tempted to do beach shenanigans. Named after Pythagoras' Theorem for the love triangles, obviously.


	126. Cowboy Hat

A/N: This is one of mine. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: I once threatened to eat my hat and then defecate it into Jeff Bridges' letterbox. You've all been warned.

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_The sun rose over the cleft in the hills. A single ray fell upon Cloud's sleeping eyelids, and he awoke with a groggy sensation of peace. He turned and looked at the man sleeping next to him with a tender expression._

"_Vincent. Let's mosey," he said, picking up his oh-so-bitchin' cowboy hat and placing it lovingly on the deputy's head._

"_Time to ride?" Vincent replied, scratching himself. He was bare chested and sweaty, and Cloud's senses were overpowered with lust._

"_Oh, yeah," Sheriff Cloud said, and went down upon his friend, mouth aching for_

"Ah, Yuffie. Composing a piece of electronic mail, I see?" Vincent said, looking over her shoulder.

She responded by casually throwing herself in front of the monitor.

"W-what? Of course I am, doofus! What else would I be writing?" she chirped.

"...What else would you be writing on WRO computers, you mean," he said in a low tone.

_Well, damn, Yuffie. Way to be inconspicuous about it. Now even Barret goddamn Wallace'd know you're up to something, _she thought to herself.

All of a sudden, his frown changed to a wry smile. "Well, I shall you to it, Yuffie."

She breathed a sigh of relief as he walked away. Then, she sat back down to orchestrate some very serious _business_ between Sheriff Cloud and his emo deputy.

When she was done, she emailed it to her home account. For private eyes only, she grinned. Still, Vincent's weird reaction had rattled her, so, to cheer herself up, she kicked over Reeve's bin before she left. Job accomplished, she walked home (the last time she'd gotten the bus, a tramp had almost molested her).

She opened her email address, and couldn't resist rubbing her hands with glee. After that one gay cowboy movie, the part of her brain that sane men never dared to imagine fired up. And with Cloud's tendency towards moseying, and Vincent's weirdo obsession with always carrying a gun, things had just written themselves.

She was surprised to find that above her beloved creation was listed an email from Vincent. Marked high priority. She hovered for a moment before answering it. On one hand, it could surely wait until after she finished writing that hot smex, right? But she could get into trouble. And Reeve was pretty much on the verge of firing her. She wasn't going back to glass collecting at Seventh Heaven again. Sighing, she clicked.

_Dear Yuffie,_

_As you may or may not know, a copy of every email sent on a company computer is forwarded to the WRO security centre for safety reasons. As I am the head of security at the WRO, I have access to these emails. I am disgusted at the contents an email you sent to your home account today. I must demand, strenuouly, that you desist from writing such things, and curb your obsession towards, and I quote, "the forbidden union of Cloud and Vincent under the moon." I must also ask that you curb your obsession towards my chest, which accounted for a good 30% of the content. Any further examples of this flagrant misuse of company property will be reported to Reeve. Immediately._

_From Vincent_

She replied almost instantly, a knee-jerk reaction.

_I wouldn't be so obsessed with your chest if you'd show it off more, Chuckles._

Within ten minutes, another email from Vincent had buzzed back.

_Dear Yuffie,_

_Due to your insolent response, I have assumed that you wish this to be reported to Reeve. I have forwarded him your 'creation', as well as the contents of this conversation. You brought it upon yourself._

_From Vincent_

For her response to that, she told him to go rape a chocobo. Then, she went to the fridge, and demolished a chocolate cake, mourning her soon-to-be joblessness. When she finally returned to the computer, there was an email from Reeve- another high priority job.

_Yuffie,_

_Ostensibly, this email has been sent to punish you. However, reading your account of an imaginary sex scene between Vincent and Cloud, as well as the following conversation, I broke down in laughter. I fully support this use of the company's computers; the restoration of laughter to the world is one of the WRO's key objectives. To reward you for your dedication to this facet of the WRO's duty, I am promoting you to Public Relations Advisor. Your duties will include pedalling more of this to the public. _

_By the way: Vincent, if you're reading this, show your chest off more. I imagine Yuffie needs her inspiration._

_Oh, and Yuffie: you may be thinking you've gotten off lightly. And, with me, you have. However, I have forwarded a copy to Cloud and Tifa. My advice? Start running._

_From Reeve_

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A/N: Just a silly little joke chapter here.


	127. Shed

A/N: This one's from Jebus Criess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: The world is a place of great brutality and occasional beauty. An orchestrated herd of lawyers, all armed with the very pointiest of sticks, ranks somewhere in between.

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When she dreams in the night, his red eyes look out from her nightmares. Not the points of fire he shows to the enemy, but the burning embers that smoulder with interest when he looks at her from the comfort of his armchair. The knowing, consuming appreciation he has for her, that just seems to strip away all her layers at once.

And every time he looks at her, he looks deeper than before; it's as if she's shedding skin, a snake slowly becoming smaller and smaller under his gaze. And she worries that, if he looks deep enough, she'll shed away everything she's ever learned, and he'll see the tiny, black spot of weakness that lies at the centre of her being.

Maybe he'll see the reason she takes things that don't belong to her, the reason she takes so much care to point out that she's awesome, the reason she goes to ever greater lengths to distract everyone from the real her. And she's not quite ready to show that side of herself to anyone yet.

He watches, with amused interest, from the comfort of his armchair, as she tries to hide from him. The benefit of years of experience (and an inherent lack of faith in the human race) have already laid bare all the flaws in her soul for him. He can't bring himself to tell her that he already knows what she is, deep down, and that she is nowhere near as bad as she imagines herself to be.

He says nothing, but watches with respect as she sheds her skin for him.

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A/N: Just in the mood for something short and sweet again.


	128. Attack Of The Claw

A/N: This one's from Kitty Materia Princess.

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Disclaimer: I swear that I have not, nor will I ever, bring sexy back.

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"So, spill, Yuff. What's it like, living with a guy who has a claw?" Tifa asks, leaning over the table and almost knocking over her cup of coffee with her cleavage.

"What, you mean his big metal arm condom?" she replies, tipping another sachet of sugar into her own cup. She won't stop until the sugar-to-coffee ratio is at least 1:1.

"Yes, Yuffie. His big metal arm condom," Tifa says, rolling her eyes. "How do you live with it?"

"I dunno. It's funny to see him doing the bin run, though. His claw pokes holes in the bag, so he ends up scattering our rubbish all over the neighbours' lawn, somehow," Yuffie smirks.

"Why does he go across your neighbours' lawn to get to his own bin?" Tifa asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Because I damn well told him to. My neighbours are jerks," Yuffie grins back.

Tifa sprays her coffee all over the table. This provides us all with a moral: you may survive a collision with Tifa's breasts, but you cannot survive one of Yuffie's jokes.

"But, really," Tifa eventually replies, leaning far down over the table and talking in a conspiratorial whisper, "How do you...y'know...do _it_?"

"Tifa, you have the biggest knockers in all existence and you can't even say 'sex'?" Yuffie asks at full volume, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yuffie, shh! We're in public..."

"Well, Grasshopper, when me and ol' Vincey boy bang-a-rang, he usually keeps it on to preserve his oh-so-precious kink factor," Yuffie laughs, relishing the embarrassment.

"Doesn't it...well, hurt?" Tifa asks, wide-eyed.

"Nah. I'm a ninja, Teef. I spend all my time doing combat missions and hanging upside down and stuff. Take it from me: this ass is made of granite."

"...Yuffie, I worry about you. Honestly," Tifa sighs.

"You think that's bad? I remember the time he tried to tickle me. With all the nicks and cuts on my arm, the whole damn office thought I was self-harming," she smirks.

"Yuffie, that's not a good thing," Tifa says critically.

"'Course it is. Reeve thought I was having an emotional breakdown and gave me the whole week off. Never be afraid of a little bit of slap and tickle. Of course," she winked, "Vinny got the slap."

"I can imagine."

"So, Teef. What's it like living with a dude who can't leave home without his longcoat, some goggles and a sword that could compensate for even the hugest of leather fetishes?" Yuffie winks.

"Oh, believe me, Yuffie- he's not compensating for _anything_," Tifa laughs. "And yes, Yuffie. I keep my gloves well and truly on in the bedroom."

Yuffie chokes.

The sun is shining; the sky is blue. The sounds of the city surround them. It seems an entire world away from Sephiroth or Jenova or the sins of the Shinra company. And if there are more days when they find out more than they want to know over a good cup of coffee, they might truly call the world 'at peace'.

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A/N: I had a brilliant idea for this, but I forgot it.


	129. Used Tissues

A/N: This one's from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Remember kids, if you're going to run with knives, make sure you get a mondo killstreak all up in that crib. (Stupid Black Ops, I don't even own the game and I'm still picking it up.)

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There are certain lines you do not cross. Predictably, Yuffie has crossed them, rubbed them out, and moved them further forwards so she can repeat the process. However, he had to give her credit- she hadn't just went past the line, she had sprinted past at five hundred miles an hour and disappeared over the horizon. It was inventive, well-designed, incredibly well executed- in short, it was genius. _Evil_ genius.

She'd picked her opportunity well. He'd been returning from a 'business trip' (aka monster genocide excursion) in Great Glacier. He'd picked up some souvenirs- a snowboard and boots for her, the sniffles for him. In truth, he couldn't smell a thing.

Step one of Yuffie's plan was complete.

She'd thrown herself at him, and dangled from his neck for a few seconds. Then appraised how sick he looked. She was wearing cotton pyjamas with the top button unfastened, and the soft flesh of her neck exposed to the world. She'd been caring, then coy, feeling his forehead for temperature and then drawing it slowly down until it rested on his chest. As tired as he was, he longed for her; and so concluded step two.

With Yuffie's silver tongue and the fact that he was used to her 'adventurous' side, it was the work of a moment for her to entice him for some fun and games. When she drew a blindfold from her shirt, he merely assumed that she'd missed him more than usual.

With the blindfold (pleasingly warm from its stowing-place) over his eyes, all his senses were heightened- except that ailing sense of smell. But he was hyperaware to the seduction in her voice as she told him she was running a bubble-bath for him, and that she'd make sure to get him clean all over. He heard the sound of water running in the background, and enquired what they were to do in the interim.

She didn't say anything, but let her hands do the talking.

An hour passed in complete darkness, as Yuffie Kisaragi assaulted his every nerve. Eventually, though, she whispered (her breath hot and ticklish on his ear) that his bath was ready. She pulled him up by the hand, and led him, without sight, to the bathroom, stopping every so often for another caress. They reached the bathroom (he knew by the coolness of the tiles against his bare feet) and she removed what few clothes he still retained after their activities earlier. He felt her move around to his side, a hand trailing across his abdomen, across to his lower back, and then finally down to his hip-

Without warning, she pushed.

The last thing he heard before he hit was the cackle, long and deranged. And then, he fell with a sploosh. Not a splash, but a sploosh. Whatever it was, it was warm, thick, viscous. He pulled off the blindfold, spluttering, and found himself sitting, completely naked, in a bath full of...tomato soup. He hadn't smelt it due to his sniffles. He hadn't seen it because of the blindfold. And he hadn't suspected it because of the sex in the air.

That was two days ago.

He suspected Yuffie was lying low at Tifa's house. He hadn't objected so much to the prank (even he admired how much effort it had taken to set up, and how clever it had been) as much as Yuffie taking pictures with her digital camera. He suspected he looked like some sort of Creature Of The Soup Lagoon, with added love-bites. Still, when she came home (probably through the bathroom window in the dead of night) she was in for a shock.

It had taken him five rolls of tissues to remove all traces of tomato red from his skin. And each one had been superglued, lovingly, to the inside of Yuffie's 'secret' closet in which she kept all her precious possessions.

There are some lines you do not cross, and she had crossed it. He wondered if making her private space look like it was a Demon Wall on its period crossed that line too.

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A/N: Why has no one done this? Honestly, someone needs to try this prank, and write in with the results.


	130. Storm Child

A/N: This one's for Kitty Materia Princess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I don't own it, so it's time to abuse it.

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There were fingers drumming rhythmically on the worktop. It was white marble, well-polished and expensive. It was mine. The fingers were stiff, tired and still gloved; they, too, were mine. Yuffie, with her ire pouring in waves from her stance, paced furiously in the small kitchen, her nostrils flared; she was not mine. I was hers.

"I don't believe this. Of all the dumbass tricks you've pulled, this has to be number one. Seriously, I'm astounded by your idiocy," she seethed. There were lines in her face that I had not seen before, and did not wish to see more of.

"I am sorry, Yuffie," I said solemnly. And I was.

"I don't get how you could even _think_ this would be okay. What was going through your goddamn brain, Vincent?" she carried on, turning on one heel and pacing the other way.

"Very little," I said, in appeasement. I continued drumming my fingers on the worktop, although my fingertips were beginning to hurt.

Yuffie turned, and exhaled. The fierce lines of anger dropped in her face, remaining there as mere ghosts of past displeasure. She was not merely angry at my indiscretion, but also hurt, and now the latter played upon her face.

"I don't...I can't...Just why, Vince? Tell me why," she appealed. For all the world, her face reminded me of that of an orphaned waif.

"I...I did not think. On some level I knew what I was doing, but still did it anyway," I groped, looking for a truthful explanation.

"_You what!"_ she shouted, her rage returning almost instantaneously. "You _knew? _If you'd just _forgotten, _like every other guy, I could have understood, but you _knew_? Did you do this _just_ to hurt me or something?"

I stayed silent. It seemed the best course. Yuffie was as mercurial in her rage as she was in her everyday life; there would be better points to argue my case than now.

"I'm not letting you do this," she said, with a small but venomous wobble in her voice. "I'm going to fix it."

Her hands went to the phone, and pulled it off the cradle with deliberate gentleness; no doubt she was worried about damaging it in her fury. I put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off.

"Hello, Reeve? Is that you?" she said, maintaining an illusion of civility. She turned to look at me as she spoke, and then, making sure I noticed, put the phone on loudspeaker.

"_...Yuffie, it's always a pleasure to receive a call from you."_

I was tempted to warn him that, this time, it would be no pleasure.

"Reeve," she said, with an intake of breath, "Am I to understand that Vincent Valentine will be leaving for Gongaga at five AM on Friday morning, on WRO business?"

"_Why, yes, Yuffie. Is there a problem?"_

"Do you know," she said, her voice dropping into the lower octaves, "What day that is?"

"_Why, no. I wasn't aware it was some sort of special occasion."_

"It's our anniversary, Reeve. And you can shut that beardy face up and listen to me for a second. I'm just informing you that Vincent will not be going to Gongaga this Friday, because goddamn it, Tuesti, this Friday he is _mine._ I don't care how many agents you have to get in. If they complain, reroute them to our house, and I'll be sure to knock some freaking sense into them. If he goes to Gongaga, Reeve, then frankly he can take all his stuff with him, because he won't be getting back inside this damn house for at least a month. Now go back to your stupid, worthless paperwork it whatever it is you actually _do,_"she hissed. Reeve didn't say anything, but wisely put the phone down. Yuffie turned to me.

"Get this straight in your head, Vincent. You do not fly halfway across the world on our anniversary because Reeve _freaking _Tuesti says so," she snarled.

"But, Yuffie," I said, for fairness' sake. "Reeve is, technically, my boss. It's not correct workplace procedure to ignore his-"

"Oh, _grow a pair_," she said in disgust, and brushed past me as she stormed into the living room.

I sighed. Dedication I had, but sometimes Yuffie made me think I was giving it to the wrong things. But how could we afford our house, with its white marble and kitchen large enough to pace comfortably in, without money? I shook it away. Yuffie had turned on the television, indicating that for all intents and purpose the argument had been won.

Tentatively, I sat down on the sofa next to her, as was our custom. She looked at me, the gleam of annoyance still in her eyes. Then, she leaned over possessively, and placed on hand over my chest.

"Mine," she said. And, as in most things, she was right.

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A/N: It's been a while since I've done POV for this collection; in fact, I don't remember the last time. Perhaps there wasn't one. It's difficult to use it to its full effect in this format, due to the constraints of shortness.


	131. Why Me?

A/N: This is one of mine. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: Whatever I did, I didn't do it.

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There are times when the whole world falls around you, when the sky collapses inwards like an eggshell hit with a spoon. Times when you just have to drop to your knees, push the hair out of your eyes and howl up at the world, "Why me?"

And she wonders, sometimes, why it's her that the world chose as its chew-toy. Why she had to be the princess held away from her prince by stupid traditions, why her prince is so goddamn supportive of said traditions, and why the hell she always has to go out and save the world just when she's juggling everything else.

Then, she smiles.

Because she knows the reason why it's her the world picks on. It's because no-one else is bad ass enough to hold it together. And because no-one else, in the entire world, has Vincent Valentine standing behind her, ready to carry her forwards with no more effort than a small 'hn' if she falls. In her hands lies the fate of the world.

And standing on his shoulders, she knows she can bear the strain.

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A/N: Yeah, this one was just a little nibble. I've taken a small (one-prompt) break to do some serious thinking. My main aim, when I continued this collection, was to be highly obnoxious and annoy everyone who'd failed at a 100-prompt challenge. I feel that, frankly, I've done that; however, I also feel that I need to focus on my other stuff, which is sorely neglected.

TL;DR, **I have decided to end this collection when it reaches the 151****st**** prompt. ** (Why 151st? Well, it's time and a half the hundred prompts, plus one- so it's rubbing people's faces in it good and hard. Also, there were 151 Pokemon in the original games. This makes the number more significant, somehow.) That means there are (about) ten or so prompts left open at this moment in time. After that, I'm going to mark the collection as complete. I won't be doing my own prompts, so as to leave more for you guys. Just letting you know.


	132. Quetzalcoatl

A/N: This one's for Anzer'ke. Thanks! (Also, this one is an AU.)

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Disclaimer: The name of this prompt is one I can actually spell first-time. It's possibly the only thing I learned from Final Fantasy VIII (except that overlevelling on the first disk is usually a bad idea.)

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It was a flawless combination of nature, design and pure, old-fashioned seduction. Yuffie Kisaragi, bandit, bounty hunter and brigand, had mastered it. She would march into strange and unwelcome lands, and all men would look at her with wonder. Her skin was geisha-pale and her tongue every bit as shrewd as a serpent's; she would disguise a strike as a feather soft-caress. She would appear and they would worship her body even as she relieved them of their gold and their lives; she was as Cortés mistaken for Quetzalcoatl, a conqueror in the clothing of a god.

But if she was Quetzalcoatl, then he was the Ifrit.

He always appeared from nowhere, cloaked in red and with the strength of a titan. Like a hound, he snapped constantly at her heels. She scorned him for being a jinn bound to the service of some shady master with a huge wallet; her scorned her for her wiles and her cowardice. Vincent Valentine, the bounty hunter with the fire in his eyes that threatened to reduce his very self to cinders.

The chase was near eternal. No matter what she threw at him, he had the preternatural ability to survive. She had stabbed, cut, crushed, burnt. He simply got up and went for his gun, and she was forced to flee. For his part, he could never catch her. She would disappear, become someone else, and be reborn, forcing him to scour the land for her once again.

She often wondered why he was so persistent. A hunter as skilled as him would realise it was more profitable to bring in many smaller, easily caught prey rather than waste years traipsing around in her trails. She almost thought that perhaps he was one of those foolish men who had once worshipped her, and he was exacting a terrible and drawn out vengeance. And so, she would taunt him each time they met, and each time she escaped his clutches.

"Well, I hate to love you and leave you, but my El Dorado awaits," she would pout. And his response, always the same and hissed between clenched teeth:

"Your love burns not so hot as my bullets."

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A/N: Don't even ask. Just wanted a cool line to end on and to throw in some mythology/game references.


	133. How To Sleep Alone

A/N: This one's from Kitty Materia Princess. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: There's no such thing as a free lunch, unless you have extremely sticky fingers and can run really fast.

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A small thing that grew into a large thing; an incident at the restaurant. Raised voices, repercussions.

She drew the covers over her. They were colder than usual.

He'd left; picked up his gun before he went. He left the pictures of her, the phone charm she made him. He left everything.

She said she didn't care. The emptiness of the apartment didn't believe her.

The bed seemed more expansive than ever before, a vast ocean into which she sank. The covers moved with the swell of her breast.

But no matter what she did, they still smelt of him.

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A/N: Just a drabble for now. I miss them.


	134. Daughter Of The Empire

A/N: An AU piece for Jebus Criess. Thanks!

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Musical Disclaimer: Check out Guitar George; he knows all the chords. But it's strictly rhythm; he doesn't wanna make you cry or sing. Evidently, he's not a lawyer.

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"And so, Princess, the Gods of Wutai stormed down upon the Shinra and broke them, like rag dolls. The divine serpent, Leviathan, drowned them in his fury," her teacher recited. Wutai history 101. She heaved a sigh. She already knew how the rest of the lecture would go. Wutai, having routed the company supplying power to so much of the world, began a campaign of conquest, one which unfolded with incredible rapidity; without their mako-driven technology, most settlements couldn't even mount a defence.

And so Wutai became the colossus which bestrode the world, with her father firmly at the helm. He was a strong man, confident and unbroken. He was the best leader anyone could imagine for their empire.

Pity he was more committed to his job than his daughter.

The waves of boredom rolled off her. She spent her days resting languidly by the river, or being 'taught' by expensive but entirely worthless tutors. She itched for excitement, for adventure.

But time moved without her. Up until the capture of Nibelheim.

In an orgy of bloodlust and violence bolstered by the euphoria of victory, the soldiers of Wutai razed the Shinra mansion, symbol of their old enemy, to the ground. Eyewitnesses said that, as the flames consumed the building, an inhuman howl issued from the depths of the structure. A man, with one metal arm and newly charred skin, clambered from the wreckage.

"Not yet," he screamed, in a torn, ragged voice. "I cannot control it!"

There was a sound unknown to human ears, and fur burst from the blacked skin. The soldiers grabbed their weapons, but they were as nothing before the rage of the beast. And thus, the Demon of Nibelheim was born.

Though it was as strong as a brigade and had the power to shift, seamlessly and endless, from one horrifying form to the next, the true danger came from its intelligence. Unlike monsters, it had strategy, and tact. It moved steadily towards Wutai, swimming across the ocean with the tireless muscles of the beast. It would attack at nights, killing only a few soldiers at a time, picked away at them. It knew who its enemy was.

Yuffie Kisaragi watched with interest, even as security mounted around her. She, as daughter of the Emperor, was the weak point at which the beast might try to strike. Her safety was paramount, they said, and moved her into the most secure reaches of the palace. Restrained and kept from the outside world, her boredom increased even further.

And then, the washer-woman at Wutai's gates was found dead, with claw marks where her heart had been.

Paranoia became rife as people realised what the Demon was up to. There was no massacre, no chance for the soldiers to attack en masse; it was strictly torture. Each day, a new person would be found dead in the river, bearing the same tell-tale signs. But no one could find the beast itself. Rumours circulated, exaggerating the beast and its prowess; some even called it an old god Wutai had thrown away and which was now wreaking its vengeance. But Yuffie Kisaragi was safe, sequestered in the palace surrounded by guards.

She was woken in her bed by hands around her neck.

Long, ragged black hair framed a face wrought with desperation. His eyes were red, and wide with fear but not rage. And that steel hand was closed around her neck, as his other hand pried at it as if to wrestle it away.

She pulled her kunai from the sleeve of her pyjamas and struck.

He reeled backwards, the point between his eyes a bloody mess. The kunai had stuck in, but not far enough, and he began to change, howling in pain as his skin ripped itself apart and rebuilt itself cell by cell.

But before the beast could strike, she was on it once more, and with the heel of her palm she drove the kunai home. The skull, so thick as a beast, cracked, and the point of the metal drove itself into the brain. Death was almost instantaneous.

She took a deep breath as the body fell, almost serenely, to the ground. She was trembling. She had seen the fear on his face as he strangled her. He 'couldn't control it'- was that what he had said before slaughtering those soldiers? His body was, in fact, weak. The muscles were soft and formless; some former wound was had sapped all of his strength. If he had been unhurt, she never would have won. But as it was, she had destroyed him- destroyed him knowing he was scared, destroyed him without hearing his story. She sighed.

She was the Daughter of the Empire, after all.

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A/N: Again, this would have been far too long for the collection if I'd developed it even half as much as I'd wanted to. Really, I could have made an entire story from this; but alas, I don't have time. On that note, my apologies for the current schedule difficulties; my internet is playing up again. For the people waiting: I'll answer my reviews tomorrow if it kills me. Sorry!


	135. Life Of The Party

A/N: This one's from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Let's just say I ain't on Squeenix's christmas card list.

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As the summer faded and the autumn marched relentlessly into her life, she found that she was no longer as lively as she was when she was young. She had grown into that strange and surreal maturity that came so easily to her mother, crouched amongst the sweep of the sakura blossoms; the odd serenity that concealed a soul that thrived within her ageing shell. She was approaching middle age now, and enjoyed it; she found fresh appreciation of the nature around her, felt more and more left behind as the cities and technology left her by the wayside.

Her friends, perennially middle aged, adored her transformation. Like her, they realised that her time had come to transition, effortlessly, to something deeper and more subtle. She still had her old sarcasm, her biting sense of humour, but they were now bent to beauty rather than bullying. Red surveyed the change with burning interest, surprised once again by how quickly humans changed, becoming something new in only a matter of years.

And Vincent, who never aged at all, wondered at her transformation from girl to woman. For him, she went from being the young woman who had held her hand upon his heart to something new; a smouldering at the centre of his being. She was no longer his little loved one, but now his equal, his partner.

But there were, of course, exceptions. As Cloud and Tifa decided that they were of the age for children, Yuffie scorned such a thought. Maternal swelling didn't yet appeal to her, and she gently mocked Tifa's ever-growing cup-size.

Also, every so often their next-door-neighbours, who were foolish enough to have feuded with them, would occasionally find pieces of Yuffie's old silverware embedded in their newly-painted front door, thrown with a degree of force no ordinary mortal could muster.

And, once a year, every year, Vincent would find himself bound and gagged (and not in the kinky way) in the bathroom on the night of the WRO office party. Yuffie would flash him a grin that would have been sexy when she was younger but was now sultry, and skip off to the party herself. His workmates put his absence down to him being, well, Vincent Valentine. And she would enjoy herself, mumble a few words to Janice from accounting, staple Reeve's coattails to the wall when he wasn't looking, and call it a night.

But why?

It was all down to a deep rooted fear she had. With her calming as she grew older, Reeve becoming more and more obsessed with the model train set she'd gotten him last Christmas and the other office people mediocre by comparison to Avalanche's personalities, there was a very real danger that Vincent Valentine- he of the cloak, the cape, and the incredibly dry sense of humour- would become the life of the party. Which led to an even greater danger of the universe exploding.

Yuffie Kisaragi: still saving the world at 34. Some people's work is never done...

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A/N: Right. You'll have to excuse me for skipping out on my schedule slightly; however, my exams loom in less than a month, and I really should be focusing on them. I can't very well write Yuffentine in my English exam!


	136. Grim Reaper

A/N: Well, after one of the more hectic periods in my life so far (end of school, parties, holidays, exams, dates, you name it) I'm back, and I appear to have a real defecit on my hands. So, instead of my usual one-every-two-days, I'm switching to a ratio of _three_-every-two-days until I've caught up. Sorry for the delays, folks! This prompt is from yours truly, and is one of the last such prompts. So enjoy!

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Disclaimer: When Disney, Square and whoever else I've stolen from catches up with me, I'm going to prison for a long, long time.

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There is a blackness bordering on eternity, a space where no sound echoes and no star is born. But there is silence, and in it he hears the machinations of his mind, the gears that are being mercilessly assaulted. He reaches out a hand towards nothing, a futile effort to stop it. His fingertips are mere bone, the facade of flesh and humanity stripped away. Here you are, they said, and here are the parts that make up you, the Great Machine. There are no replacements, no spares. And if you break, no one will ever fix you.

A flash of whiteness, and there is life, movement; he drifts upwards. The air is the sea and the sea is the sky, and he gulps down water only to drown on the oxygen. He breathes and there is smoke; silhouettes run across the horizon like a flicker-book. And Death, Death! It stands at his shoulder, as beautiful as the morning star, whispers soft and heady words into his ear. And he runs, and it runs too, stealing away in the footsteps of his shadow. The world does not turn, it twists, it spins and twirls and wrenches, and there is water in his lungs and he cannot breathe.

"Wake up," says the Grim Reaper. The voice is comforting, sweet. "Wake up, and meet me."

His legs are numb, and dangle uselessly; he claws at the sky, and climbs. With handfuls of nothing, he breaks the surface.

"He's awake," says the Grim Reaper, still sweet. "The fool."

He jerks back to reality. There is a hand holding his chin, the nails digging in and drawing blood that runs like a prisoner's broken shackles down the fingers. Bone-white. He tries to move his arms, and finds them tied. A moment of panic, and the wild beat of his heart forces more blood from his wounds, wounds that were not there when he fell into black. His feet are bare, and he feels naked because of it.

The room is nothing less than a pit of Hell. He had made it that way. It was dark, dank, silent- a dungeon. His dungeon. And Vincent Valentine, his last prisoner, looks down at him through narrowed eyes, arm in a makeshift sling. Valentine's eyes glance upwards meaningfully, but he does not look. He knows. Hanging above him, like meat from butcher's hooks, will be the men he hired to run this base. None of them are alive. Not even him.

Yuffie Kisaragi removes her hand from his chin gently, letting her fingers trail as they leave, a trail of blood marking their path. She smiles at him, as if to say everything will be okay. She moves her hands around his face, tracing the contours of his eyes, the set of his forehead, drawing a velvet fingertip over his nose. She snapped it. The sound echoed, amplified by the stone walls and drowned by the scream.

"You fool," she said sweetly. Her eyes were pools of black ink, black ink in which were written a million words of hatred and revenge. "You're dead, you know. It's just a question of how."

Vincent Valentine leans against the wall, powerless to stop her. That doesn't stop him from pleading, with eyes and voice and soul.

"Idiot," she says, and like a striking snake she grabs his tongue. He tastes the tang of coppery blood on her fingers; is it his or someone else's?

She looks at him, sickly smile still in place. The Grim Reaper stands at her shoulder, and her face is pale as bone. And Death stands in her shadow, ready to be appeased; the time is drawing near. And in her other hand is not the scythe but the knife that will carve his very soul from him.

"You don't _ever_ torture my Vincent," she says, twirling the knife. "We've seen war and we've seen evil, and every time you see something you take a little bit of it away with you, a little memory that sits in your soul until the moment you need it most. We have seen death."

The Grim Reaper at her shoulder smiles its toothy grin. The hand pulls, the knife descends, and the White Rose of Wutai becomes red.

There is water in his lungs, crimson and coppery, and he cannot breathe. No more words come.

* * *

A/N: I decided to show the characters in a darker light here, to reflect the vast quantities of Shinra soldiers and other humans the party slaughtered in the game. (I slaughtered more than most- those SOLDIER 3rd classes, took me ages to steal a Hardedge from them...)


	137. One Piece Pocketwatch

A/N: The second in my mass update, and this one's from Anzer'ke. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: I've started ducking out of photographs in case Squeenix recognises my face. You can't be too careful.

* * *

He grumbles when she adjusts his tie as he leaves for work. He appreciates the affection, but she shouldn't be so motherly about it, he thinks.

She scoffs, of course, and carries on.

Time. Time is his greatest enemy and his dearest friend. Time is how he has built this life for them, the peace bartered for with his fearsome reputation- a reputation which has only grown. His status approaches that of a legend; there have been statues, plinths, festivals held in honour of the Eternal Guardian of the Planet.

But Time has also stolen the suppleness of her body, the colour of her hair. It has stolen the grace of her movements and the softness of her skin. It has stolen the lightness of her laughter, and the smoothness of her face.

"You know, Vincent," she winks every now and then when she doesn't get her way, "You should respect your elders."

It's a trick she's been pulling ever since she first surpassed him in (biological) age. At the time, he found it funny and ironic. Now, it's their bitter-sweet running joke.

She tucks a wisp of greying hair behind her ear and bids him farewell. He stands, dumbly, not knowing what he wants to say nor why he wants to say it. Time has not yet given him the ability to speak his heart; it might never bestow that gift.

"Come on," she says, reaching a hand up to stroke his face. He's acutely aware of the wrinkles in her fingers. "You need to go."

Their relationship would not be so remarkable if it hadn't weathered arguments. As Yuffie grew older, she found a new desire, one that had previously barely stirred in her: children. Vincent had recoiled from the thought. He could barely understand his own feelings. How could he be expected to respond to the emotions, needs and whims of a child? In the end, he won the argument, but the issue simmered under the surface. And then, the window passed. The resentment did not crash against him, but rather lapped; Yuffie was angry at him, angry for wasting their chance to have a child, for taking away her dreams of being a mother. Eventually, the anger mellowed into sadness, a sadness which would sometimes still hold sway over her.

"I don't mind, Vinnie," she'd say, shaking her head slowly. "I might not have children, but you can be my legacy."

In a way, she's right. She built the person that he is, the fabric of his soul. She put the pieces back together when he broke, and where she couldn't, she forged better pieces to fill the emptiness in him. But it's still disconcerting.

And every day, he lingers in their doorway for a moment, searching for the words that will not come and the feelings he cannot express. But each time, he sighs and walks away, hoping that perhaps tomorrow will bring the answers. But tomorrow never comes; tomorrow is golden, but Time is silver, tarnishing everything it touches, and Time will come whether you want it to or not.

On the night they were married, he took it, the one-piece pocket watch she had given to him for his birthday, and hurled it into the ocean. He proclaimed, in defiance of the universe, that time did not matter to him, that their love would be eternal. And although he cannot say it, he wishes he could dive down into that river and fish it back out again, so he can chart and remember each second with her as it passes away into the vast and immutable past.

For Time is his greatest enemy, his dearest friend. It is his most precious treasure and his greed for it consumes him. And if he could but wrest that pocket watch from the depths in which he threw it, maybe, just maybe, he could turn back the hands when the seconds run out.

* * *

A/N: A little bit of melancholy there, and some random symbolism because I could.


	138. In The Style Of

A/N: Alright, time for a somewhat different chapter, courtesy of Lethe Erisdottir. Here, there'll be a little gimmick- each paragraph is written in a different style from a different author. See how many you can recognise- answers will be at the bottom, and you can tot up your points at the end. Have fun!

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Disclaimer: Okay, this has gone beyond Square. Now I'm ripping off _everyone_.

* * *

"Well," said I, "the only explanation must be that we have been kidnapped. I see no other reason why we should be tied up."  
"Duh," said my friend Yuffie Kisaragi, affecting a jovial drawl quite unbefitting of our predicament. Not for the first time, I felt driven to distraction over her queer humours.  
"We must turn our attentions to the problem of escape, Yuffie. I should be glad of removing myself from this dark hole."  
"Well, Vincent," she said, eyes glittering with that certain manic energy she rarely exhibited, "I have concocted a plan."

* * *

The room had a monopoly on black. Black brickwork, black tiling on the floor. The mortar might've been a different colour once, but it was sure black now. The air was full of dust and the smell of dead men. Light thrived there the same way dandelions thrive in sulphuric acid.

"You're crazy," I said.

She laughed curtly. "Well, sure. Crazy's good. Less predictable."

She looked crazy. Most people do when they're in hokey. Her clothes had more dirt on them than private dick on a bent politician, and her hands twitched and shuddered.

"Okey," I said.

* * *

She was so beautiful.

She was so beautiful.

She was so beautiful there, grinding away the blue nylon ropes with her long, painted fingernails, face set in grim determination as she worked her way through the bonds.

Do not misunderstand me. This was not to say I enjoyed seeing her tied up. I most certainly did not find myself attracted to her breast as it heaved in her struggles, or to the thought of her tied and submissive under a man's will. I merely appreciated the beauty of that human effort, the possibility of escape. Do not twist my words.

* * *

The soft snap of nylon. Wood scraping, silent footsteps. Pixie feet. Live woman, bending in close over the coracle of my ear. Echoes without sound. I ask again. Is she going to leave me? Stay. Remain still, silent. You are you, she is she. The world revolves. The scrape of a key against a lock. Guards? No, just noise, phantoms. Dainty fingertips on my wrists, on my ropes. I'm the captive bird in the cage that sings of freedom, not knowing its meaning. A sigh, a threat. Warmth, the swell of young breasts obscured by cloth.

-You're free, she said.

* * *

Her red lips were rimmed with velvet gloss

That all men hold for a seducer's glow

Her sweet mouth a smile spread so wide across

That visage divine, that wise angels know

And footsteps sundered silence held deep in heart

As we stayed safe within, practising the lover's art.

* * *

A/N: Right. So, the answers to your little pop quiz are:

Paragraph 1: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, specifically based on extracts from The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes

Paragraph 2: Raymond Chandler, based on The High Window

Paragraph 3: Dean Koontz, based on Demon Seed

Paragraph 4: James Joyce, based on one of the many styles found in Ulysses

Paragraph(?) 5: Oscar Wilde, based on the rhyme scheme and patterns of the poem Charmides. (10, 10, 10, 10, 11, 13, ABABCC if you're interested. Or maybe that was just the stanza I looked at...)

Award yourself points as follows:

Paragraph 1: 10 points. Although Conan Doyle's writing style is fairly typical of its period, Sherlock Holmes is fairly well read, and I did throw in clues such as references to Sherlock's manic energy whenever he is presented with a troubling case.

Paragraph 2: 5 points. Way too easy. Raymond Chandler is the one credited with popularising the hard-boiled detective style, and is also one of my favourite authors- you could expect to see him turn up sooner or later in my work. I even used his fairly characteristic spelling of 'okay' as extra lampshading.

Paragraph 3: 15 points. Although Koontz is popular among those who read thrillers, he uses a lot of different voices. The one in Demon Seed is somewhat unique among them as it shows a somewhat conflicted (robotic) personality arguing its case to an audience in the story. The book itself is also one of this earlier and less popular stories, if I'm not mistaken, which he rewrote later (the rewritten version is the one I'm basing the paragraph on.) So, because of all that, more points!

Paragraph 4: 15 points. Ulysses, that great modern classic. Known for changing genres, styles, and viewpoint in pretty much every chapter, it's a difficult one to read and difficult, too, to work out. However, Joyce's focus on physical sensations (and random segues into more metaphorical and figurative material) was the major clue here. I helped it along by borrowing one of the many speech formatting conventions he used.

Paragraph 5: 25 points. Because, let's face it, I can't write poems to save my life, and the chances of that being anything like what Oscar Wilde wrote is slim to none.

Oh, and award yourself an extra 5 points if you managed to work out what actually happened in the story. (Yuffie and Vincent wake up in a dungeon-like environment after being kidnapped. Yuffie breaks free, and Vincent, due to running jokes about him being a vampiric bondage slave, thinks she's sexy tied up. As she frees him, they belay escaping a moment to enjoy a kiss.)

Other interesting notes: apart from the single verse of poetry that constitutes paragraph 5, all the paragraphs are, in fact, drabbles of 100 words each.


	139. Butterfly Effect

A/N: This one's for SragonZ. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Rumour has it that, on dark, moonlit nights, you can hear Square employees being fed to the crocodiles living in the moat of their evil corporate mansion.

* * *

The Butterfly effect is one he observes with startling regularity, because Yuffie Kisaragi's likes, dislikes, behaviour and basic personality seem to change randomly based on whatever it is he's holding. If, for example, he talks to her with a tin of beans in his hand, she will inform him she likes puppies, perform a backflip and spend the rest of the day dissecting her food like a neuroscientist. But if he had spoken the same words but with a bundle of roses, she would tell him she hates rainy days, lock him in her room and spend the rest of the evening tickling him in any place she could reach.

This ensures he carries roses a lot of the time.

But in all seriousness, he feels as if even the smallest action affects her in grand and unexpected ways. A butterfly flapping its wings in America causes earthquakes in China, and the postman being five minutes late causes Yuffie to go on an unholy rampage with a toffee hammer. Such, apparently, is life.

However, despite the lack of a logical link between cause and effect where Yuffie is concerned, he holds tightly to those few actions he can predict the outcome of. He knows that if he presents Yuffie with a tub of vanilla ice cream, she will eat it immediately and collapse on the sofa complaining of brain freeze. This is good, as it reduces the chance she will concoct and build some sort of elaborate trap that day. Writing her any form or variant of love poem will cause her to drop whatever she is doing and squeal about how cute it is when he tries to do 'dorky romantic stuff like this'. This, too, is good, as it works without exception, and has often stopped her in the middle of strangling members of the public.

However, there is one action that, whilst bringing predictable results, still baffles him.

It seems that, whenever he and Cloud so much as brush hands, Yuffie is hard-pressed to repress a squeal. Furthermore, she immediately runs off to the spare room and locks the door, and the only sound that issues from within is a strange clicking. Whilst this is, on the surface, somewhat good (he misses her company, but she cannot get into trouble), whenever it happens there are widespread rumours on the internet the next day, usually concerning homosexual relations between him and Cloud. He had no understanding of this, but it does mean her mood stays high for as much as three days afterwards.

Not only that, but this causes Tifa to blush if she sees him anytime within the next two weeks.

A lack of logic between cause and effect. Such, apparently, is life.

* * *

A/N: Phew, one more down. Time for the next.


	140. First Kiss

A/N: Because the series is winding down, I'm now ready to accept some requests I was conspicuously avoiding previously- and this is probably the first one the list. Courtesy of Lethe Erisdottir, folks.

* * *

Disclaimer: Objects in the rear-view mirror may be more explosive than they appear. Particularly if they're rocket propelled grenades and/or jam traps.

* * *

Yuffie, by nature, was a woman of extremes, capable of defying fate, physics and all the laws of common sense. Life with her was never going to be the common or garden variety. Still, there were some laws of the universe she couldn't (or hadn't bothered to) circumvent. And one of those was the iron cast law that any important event in life will happen entirely by accident- and will go spectacularly wrong.

On the day it began, Yuffie Kisaragi was cop-baiting. This was not a particularly good idea, due to the fact cops tend to have guns, so as to discourage crimes and cop-baiting, but she was bored and hot off the heels of a messy breakup with the guy from the cinema who wore the weirdo mirrored glasses and idolised ninjas. So she needed a pick-me-up, and being a self-confessed lunatic she decided a little bit of an adrenaline buzz would be just the thing she needed.

Unfortunately, her cop-baiting was a little unconventional. Generally saying the word 'pig' will draw a policeman's ire quite well enough, but she decided to play some mind games, climb to the top of a very tall building and threaten to jump off.

In the tense (for the policemen, anyway) negotiations that followed, AVALANCHE convened.

"Is the goddamn brat nuts?" Cid grumbled. "We oughta push her off ourselves. Wastin' our time like this..."

"Cid!" Tifa said sharply. "I know it's unlikely, but we have to operate on the assumption that she's actually going to jump. Better safe than sorry, right? Now, does everyone know the plan?"

"Me and Barret man the trampoline," Cloud said wearily. "Red and Reeve handle the media."

"Hm. I'll endeavour to keep panic from escalating," Red responded. Reeve merely nodded, consternation written on his face.

"In the meantime, I'm airliftin' you an' Vince to the roof for some intense negotiations, right?" Cid chipped in gruffly. Tifa nodded.

"...Why me?" Vincent asked, cocking an eyebrow. "My...persuasive skills aren't the best."

"Yeah, but you've got a knack of jumpin' around like a maniac and surivin'. It's your job to try and catch the kid and guide her to the trampoline if she does do a swan dive," Cid said gruffly. "Well, no time like the present, I guess. We all ready?"

The plan went smoothly into operation, and within ten minutes there were two soft flumps as Tifa and Vincent landed on the building. The Shera hovered overhead, trying to avoid making a draught that could push the ninja over the edge.

"Oh, hey Teef. How's things?" Yuffie asked cheerily.

"Are you _crazy, _Yuffie? We're worried sick! Why are you threatening to jump off a building?" Tifa shouted. Delicacy never got anywhere when Yuffie was concerned.

"Iunno. Mike broke up with me," she shrugged.

Tifa looked nonplussed. "Mike? That dork with the mirrored glasses? Why'd he break up with you?"

"I might've set some traps to make his life a little more interesting," Yuffie said, chewing her bottom lip.

Vincent said nothing.

"Look, Yuffie, that's no reason to...y'know, kill yourself. I mean, he wasn't exactly A-grade material, was he, and-"

Yuffie then made a mistake. She fidgeted, shifting her weight from foot to foot and edging that much closer to the brink.

Vincent sprang.

In his defence, he was used to reacting to far smaller motions. He'd draw his gun and shoot a man if he saw even the faintest twitch of a finger; considering Yuffie's erratic movement style, he'd shown admirable restraint. On top of that, he wasn't ready to let one of his teammates- _his_ teammates, the ones he'd fought for and bled for and and become human for- die like that. Especially not cheery Yuffie Kisaragi.

Yuffie, however, shocked at seeing a Vincent barrelling towards her at full speed with a look of terrible urgency on his face, did what came naturally. And took a step backwards.

Gracefully, she fell.

Without pause or hesitation he hurled himself off the building after her, keeping his arms to his sides to streamline the dive. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered Yuffie's look of blank surprise and Tifa screaming blue murder from the top of the building. Cold air rushed past him as he shot downwards like a meteor, reaching ever towards Yuffie. As he reached her, he gathered her up in his arms like a child (_she is a child in ways, _he thought) and aimed towards the trampoline Cloud and Barret were manoeuvring nervously below. There was a moment where he thought he'd miss, but no, it grew larger and larger and then-

All the breath went out of him with the impact, and Yuffie was sent spiralling from his arms as they rebounded upwards. He hit again, disorientated, and tried to right himself in the air, but his senses were too confused at the change in speed and direction. He saw her bounce once more, below where he was about to land, and shifted in the air so he didn't hit her.

_Success, _he breathed, finally coming to rest on his back. The sky was still blue- he felt like he'd been falling for days. Exhausted, Vincent rolled to his left.

Exhausted, Yuffie rolled to her right.

Exhausted, their lips decided to call it a draw and meet in the middle.

After no longer than a tenth of a second he drew his head back, eyes wide, and started stammering his excuses. Yuffie smiled.

"Wow. That was a real show. Can't wait to see how you're planning to propose," she said dreamily. "I wasn't going to jump, y'know."

"You, Yuffie Kisaragi," he hissed, trying to extricate himself from the trampoline and her legs, "are impossible."

"Well, considering you're an immortal emo vampire with demons living in your soul, I'd say that makes two of us. Date?" she winked.

He swore.

"I'll pick you up on Monday then. Be sure to practice your rope escape," she grinned.

"I'm sorry, but are we interrupting something?" Cloud asked.

"Don't let it get to you, Spikey. They're just punk-ass motherf-" Barret began, but Vincent was already stalking away.

Life with Yuffie was never going to be a common-or-garden affair. Which is why, that Monday, he found himself tied up in the local corner café, after foolishly forgetting to practice his rope escape.

* * *

A/N: Well, there's one possible first kiss scenario. Not a very plausible one, but still. You get what you pay for.


	141. Pink Headband

A/N: This one's from LiveLifeLikeNeverBefore. Thanks!

* * *

Disclaimer: Haarson's law states if any fiction published on the internet goes on long enough, sooner or later there will be a joke regarding Gandalf and the words 'you shall not pass'. This is not that time.

(Also, Haarson's law is entirely made up.)

* * *

There is no middle measure when it comes to Yuffie's schemes. They either work brilliantly or backfire spectacularly, and on this occasion it's the latter. She really hadn't had him pegged for that kind of guy, though.

"Yuffie. My headband appears to be a different colour," he says appraisingly. Neon pink, in fact.

"Nice observation there, Vinniecakes. I must've put it in with the whites," she responds nonchalantly.

"Actually, Yuffie, I'm fairly sure there was only one thing in the wash, and it was not white. Did you have something to do with this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe," she says. That damn eyebrow. Always gets her.

It looks ridiculous set against his black leather gloves, and he holds it at arm's length like a dirty sock. Then, to her slack-jawed amazement, he shrugs and ties it around his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Vincent, it's pink. Did you not see it? It's _pink_," she explains, just in case he's had a brain aneurysm in the last fifteen seconds.

"I'm aware of this, Yuffie," he says with a blank expression.

"Then why are you wearing it?" she almost screeches, but controls herself.

"Did it not occur to you," he says, somewhat miffed, "That perhaps I _like_ pink?"

"What. Just, what," she deadpans.

"Pink is a marvellous colour. In ancient times, warriors would wear it proudly as a sign of masculinity. Just like red, it evokes blood and passion and pride," he lectured.

"Wait, I thought that was blue?"

"No, pink. Blue was actually seen as highly effeminate. I, for one, would have wholly advocated a change in Shinra uniform from blue to pink. The other Turks were not so keen on the idea, however," he says.

The image of a standing army of five thousand, all decked out in bright neon pink with their rifles in readied, was a little too much for her mind.

"W-well, I'm glad they opposed it. I despise pink," she says, sticking out her tongue. It's true; she always thought it a little too girly. Green was far better, in her opinion. More natural. She'd wear ribbons for Aerith, but that was about as far as she'd go.

"Is that so? A pity," he says absently, "Considering what else was in the wash."

She pushes past him roughly to check the washer. There, sitting quite happily, was her own headband- in an identical shade of pink.

"I thought it was a headbands-only wash, so I added yours in as well. My apologies," he says. She gets the feeling he's trying not to laugh. "However, look on the bright side. We match."

At that, she explodes.

"I can't wear _pink!_ Pink is a colour for daddy's girls and people who still believe unicorns exist!" she yells.

"And warriors, Yuffie," he says, and looks faintly amused.

"Warriors? Oh, yeah, it's for warriors, isn't it?" she snarls. "Well, Vince, seeing as we're both _warriors_ now, I'm gonna count to five and if you haven't made yourself scarce, we're gonna have ourselves a goddamn _war!_"

Wisely, he follows her advice, leaving her alone in the washroom with nothing but the sure knowledge that the altercation had gone firmly in his favour.

She growls, and ties her hair back with her (now colourful) headband. He might have won this time, but he'd pay. Oh yes, he'd pay. In the meantime, though, she needs to find out where she can buy green dye. That said, she wonders what his cloak would look like in forest green...

* * *

A/N: Just a light bite of comedy, folks. Also, an update on prompts: there are officially **six** prompts still up for the taking, so if you've got an idea you'd like to see, send it in before they're all gone!


	142. Magic's Pride, Magic's Price

A/N: This one's from Choas Babe. Thanks! (My apologies in advance.)

* * *

Disclaimer: Well, spank me with a paddle and call me Philbright Westriversidelighthouserock XXIII. I don't own Final Fantasy!

* * *

"Does this not feel wrong to you, Cloud?" Vincent grumbled.

"I know, Vincent, but we need the gil. It's one thing to fight, but another to fight without weapons," Cloud replied, handing over his shiny mastered All materia to the Corel shopkeep.

"You _sure_ it's to buy weapons? Because most of us have already _got _weapons. I mean, for some reason, I can't seem to exist without a weapon. And they're pretty good, you know. I mean, Crystal Cross- can't complain, right?" Yuffie chirped.

"Yes, Yuffie. I'm sure," Cloud said, rolling his eyes and searching the materia storage bag for anything else worth flogging.

"Right, right. I was just sayin', because I hear you've got your eye on a villa in Costa Del Sol."

"It's of no concern to me what he buys with it," Vincent grumbled. "I merely think it unwise to pawn off the crystallisation of the Planet's deepest wisdom for a pittance of gil."

"Vincent, have you _seen_ how much gil he's giving us? I'm pretty sure he could rebuild all of Corel for that much. In fact," Yuffie went on, "If I weren't such a kind and scrupulous person, I would just sit around mastering All materia and use the money to buy weapon spam for when we meet Sephiroth. I mean, I know he's tough, but how long can he last if we're all chucking Crystal Swords for next to max damage?"

"Yuffie, do you even _know_ the damage formula for Throw materia? We're probably better off upgrading it to Coin Toss and then just emptying our wallets if things get tough," Cloud lectured.

"...What you two speak of is a crime against nature," Vincent groaned.

"I know, but whatcha gonna do? I hear that two games from now, the heroes can actually win a Strategy Guide and then read it. How broken's that?" Yuffie said conversationally.

"My point," the gunman seethed, "Is that it is harmful to the dignity of the Ancients, the Planet, the Planet's wisdom, all that we say we are fighting for, to simply sell en mass the products of- _Cloud, did you just sell Slash-All?_"

"Wrong button. I forgot I switched x with circle to match all the other games. Oh well. I'm sure we can just restart from an earlier save."

"Aw, man! That was, like, two hours ago! We've bred almost twenty chocobos since then!" Yuffie wailed.

"Can you not simply buy it back?"

"Nope. I've never, ever seen a shopkeeper actually sell anything I've given them. Makes you wonder how they stay in business."

"Then threaten him!" Yuffie pouted.

"Well, you'd _think_ that would work, given that we're all inhumanely powerful, wielding the best weapons in the game and the only ones that stand a chance against Sephiroth, as well as being known throughout the Shinra-conquered world as merciless terrorists, but for some reason shopkeepers just aren't afraid of us," Cloud shrugged.

"I'm afraid I must leave," Vincent announced suddenly.

"Why?" Yuffie asked.

"Because I have just realised that I despise this world too much to save it."

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry, but it just wouldn't be a collection without a fun little parody chapter in there. And yes, it _did _just get meta up in here.


	143. Cowboy Hat II

A/N: This one's from Alamorn (and by fairly popular demand elsewhere, I bet). Turning it up to eleven!

* * *

Disclaimer: I tried to get this disclaimer past the censors, but Gandalf was on the board and he said "_It shall not pass!"_ (Yes, the time has come for the Gandalf joke I warned you about.)

* * *

Cameras, as a rule, are not things you wish to be dropped on your foot. Either they are tiny things, knitted together out of the world's worst plastic by a person who is whipped if they don't work fast enough, and thus break upon impact with your toes, or they are used for filming television programs and have a density larger than anything else in the known universe. The cameras in question were the latter kind, so Vincent was understandably cautious as they were carried on wires overhead.

"Oh, hey Vince. Nice you could come. Siddown, siddown," Yuffie said, putting on a false accent he couldn't quite place. She had appeared from behind him.

"I shall stand. What devilry is this, Yuffie?" he seethed.

"Oh, well, y'know that new job you accidentally got me? Turns out I'm good at it. Long story short, we're making a movie," she said, biting her lip.

"...Allow me to get this straight. You, Yuffie Kisaragi, have been given permission to make a motion picture which revolves around Cloud and I engaging in homosexual relations?" he asked, arching an eyebrow in his very scariest way.

"_Hot_ homosexual relations, Vince. Now, the reason I called you here today was that I need to discuss some stuff with you. First off, who do you want to be played by? We got Reno to play Cloud," she babbled.

"I do not wish to be played by _anyone_," he hissed, standing up to his full height.

"So, you'll do it yourself? Awesome! That might tempt Cloud to take his role, too. Still, I'm not sure about your acting ability. You sure we can't sub you with, iunno, Tseng? He's almost as hot, and I'm pretty sure he can play you convincingly."

"I do not know what disgusts me more, Yuffie. Your belief that I cannot play myself, or the fact that half of the former Turks seem to have been drafted in for this atrocity!"

"Well, y'know, we didn't exactly volunteer. Let's just say the boss is getting some revenge for all our past screw ups."

Reno had appeared, wearing a pair of dyed purple parachute pants which were supposed to be an approximation of Cloud's SOLDIER uniform. Sadly, someone in the makeup department had been a bit overzealous with the eye-shadow, so the resultant image was somewhere between a red-headed Cloud, a clown and a panda. Vincent's eye began to twitch.

"Y'see? Fans in high places, Vince, fans in high places. Now, back to the questions," Yuffie went on, with a twinkle in her eyes. "If you were to kiss a man, one you've had repressed sexual attraction for during the past two or three years, how would you kiss him? Would you be rough, or gentle, or what?"

"I would do no such thing!" he ejaculated violently.

"Right. Well, I'll just put ya down as 'rough' because you're a kinky bugger. Now, do you spit, swallow, or gargle? Please please _please_ say gargle."

He didn't say anything. His outrage had grown so vast as to leave him speechless.

"Okay, _gar_-gle," she said, writing it down.

"Are you sure this is legal?" Reno asked.

"Almost. Now, Vincent, when you're alone, do you use your right or your left han...Silly question," she said, eyeing up his claw. "I'll just put 'both'. Alright, that's all I'll need, I think. The rest we can leave up to my enormous imagination."

She walked away, leaving Vincent to stand there by himself. If he had been a cartoon, there would have been smoke issuing from every orifice.

"I feel sorry for ya, man. I'd get your head down. 'Cause we're only low budget, shooting starts the day after tomorrow," Reno said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"No, Reno," Vincent said through gritted teeth. "I'd advise you to get your head down, because shooting _actually_ begins in twenty seconds."

He drew his gun, and began counting to twenty.

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A/N: This has as much sex as a footballer does with his brother's wife. Bwahaha, English zing. In the same vein as the first Cowboy Hat, this is entirely crack.


	144. Forever Means Forever

A/N: This one's from tinterheck. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Do not take the red pill. It contains acid and cyanide.

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**Life is dull.**

_Life is wonderful. _

**Talking to yourself won't get you anywhere, you know.**

_Ah, but who to talk to? He never comes anymore._

**The cow.**

_He's happy, I bet._

**The cow.**

_I'd like to thank her. For taking care of him._

**I'd like to kill her. Ridiculous child.**

_She makes him happy._

**What kind of woman wears shorts? Contemptuous fool. **

_So full of life. Clear, soft skin. He's so silent, broody. He needs the noise._

**The cow. Stealing him from me. Who gave her the right to sentence me to an eternity of loneliness?**

_I did this to myself. No regrets._

**So many regrets. How can there not be regrets? Trapped, is what I am.**

_Safe. Safe for the world. Jenova lives. Lives inside me._

**They deserve it. She deserves it, but she doesn't deserve him.**

_Nor do I. So sorry. So many sins._

**Who is she? Bratty urchin with the loud voice.**

_Not me. So far from me. It makes sense. I broke him. Why would he choose someone like me?_

**Hate**

_I love him. Why? I want him to be happy._

**Hate**

_I wonder if she loves him as much as I do. As much as I can. Trapped in this crystal. I'll love him forever. For as long as he lives. Forever._

**Hate**

_She'll die, sooner or later. Leave him alone. So tragic. Why do all the beautiful things die?_

**Hate**

_All the beautiful things. All except me, locked away. _

**Hate**

_He never visits anymore, because he has a new love. A new life. He doesn't need me anymore._

**HATE**

_I want him to be happy. For him. But for her, I..._

_**Hate.**_

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A/N: Make of it what you will; there is significance in the formatting, particularly the last line.


	145. Magic Trick

A/N: I had to take a little vacation to deal with some very important and pressing exams. However, I'm back now, and here's a chapter for ya, courtesy of Drillpill. (I feel weirdly out of practice. Not to mention this prompt stumped me a little. I'll nail the next one.)

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Disclaimer: Don't go into the light! It's the sun, and it's very, very hot.

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"So, Vampy," she'd said coolly back in the days when Sephiroth was walking around with a chunk of black materia and a slasher smile, "You ever considered using those different demon thingies in bed?"

"No," he said flatly. After five or six minutes of constant whining, Yuffie finally got him to expand on the answer.

"Strangely," he continued through gritted teeth, "As we are chasing possibly the biggest abomination _on_ the Planet _around_ the Planet, I am left little time for such puerile pursuits."

"Oh, right. I see. Can't get a girl, huh? M'not surprised. Bondage is kinda a niche market these days. Usually found on really dangerous dudes with long hair and a pathetic sense of humour," she grinned.

"I do not appreciate being compared to the Planet's greatest enemy, Yuffie."

"Whatever. Anyway, I'm going to drop a logic bomb on Red. Later."

She walked away, leaving him well and truly perplexed. How, in the name of all science, was such an idiotic child still _alive?_

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A little more than a year later, she was leant on the wall of the church in the ruins of Midgar. She had picked the wall opposite to him, because she knew it would annoy him.

"So. Marlene tells me you picked up a new trick with your fluffy superhero cape. Floaty, fast and deflects bullets, huh? That's actually pretty awesome," she whistled.

"Hn," he said.

"Used it in bed yet?"

Silence.

"Oh, come on. You've had more than enough time to pick up a chick. I know what it is, now. You just have no imagination. Come on, you can use anything in bed. Anything. I've known people who get off on-"

"Yuffie," he deadpanned.

"Fine, fine. But I expect you to have figured something out by the next time I ask," she pouted.

* * *

"Vinnie," she said quietly, "Why didn't you use your little capey trick against Nero or Weiss? I mean, not criticising you or anything, but it sounds like it would have been useful. Y'know, bullet immunity, awesome flight powers."

He frowned. He'd only been back for a month, and was not keen to revisit memories of his trials.

"I stopped using it," he said. She frowned to match him, and decided against asking for a reason.

"Aw. It was so cool, though. Have you thought how you could use it in bed yet?"

"No, Yuffie," he grimaced. "I have not."

"Huh. Well, I can think of a few ways," she said idly. "Is it, like, a transformation or an illusion or-"

"Hard to explain," he finished.

"Oh, I see. I was, just, y'know, thinking. That, uh, it would be nice to be, uh-" she coughed, "-wearing nothing, and to have that cape wrapped around you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, screw it," she said, wrinkling up her nose. "Teef was right. Men really can't take hints. If I leave things to you, I'm never gonna get totally hot cape sex."

"I wasn't aware you _wanted_ this 'totally hot cape sex'," he said stiffly, because that was honestly the best thing his mind could spit out at that moment.

"That's because you _don't take hints! _I mean, gawd. It's such a shame, too. I mean, you've got an awesome magic trick, and I've got an awesome magic trick. We would've been great," she pouted.

He honestly didn't know where to begin disagreeing with her. There was so much to choose from. The part about him not being able to take hints? That they'd be great together? The implication that _she_ was the best woman he could get? The assumption he wanted a relationship anyway? But this, of course, was Yuffie's way. Two wrongs don't make a right, so just keep stacking them up until it works.

"And what magic trick would that be?" he asked, and instantly regretted it.

"The one where all your clothes disappear," she said, right on cue. Awkwardness, five seconds long. They'd be great, he thought, but only as a comedy double act. Just a couple of stage magicians.

"After all, I already pulled it once with your wallet," she winked, and walked away. He sighed. There was no point in even checking. At least he left his money at home this time.

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A/N: More about the awkwardness than anything else.


	146. Extravaganza III

A/N: A continuation of Extravaganza, from yours truly. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: They call me the Choirboy, because I _always_ skip out of practice.

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The chamber door lay open, the heat of the morning dissipating in the cooling noon air. The house was quiet. She stirred, quietly at first, before the gears of her minded start to whir together and make sense of the situation.

Vincent Valentine lay next to her, crooked curls of hair spread out like a fan beneath him. He breathed in, breathed out. Silent. At peace.

She began, ever so slowly, to panic.

Things are moving too fast, she told herself. They broke up, they made up, they kissed, they loved. She'd given up on him, but he took her back, and where was the control? Who had it? Seconds, the mirrors of eternity, passed as she sat in confusion. Then, she bit her lip as she figured out the problem. Irony, how she hated thee. For six months he hadn't even tried to hold her, and for six months that was all she'd wanted; and now, after just one morning and night, she'd realised that _she wasn't ready._

She felt vulnerable, naked. How was she going to deal with this? There was a person lying next to her, a person just as deep and vulnerable and magnificent as she was, and he was in love with her. This wasn't petulant, kiddy stuff. This was real life, make or break, serious business. Feelings could get hurt, years could tick away fruitlessly. She could settle down, have kids, let all the life drip away from her before she'd even realised it. It was scary. It was responsibility. And, as always, her first instinct was to run away from it.

She would have flown, but for his hand on her arm.

"Yuffie. You're awake," he said, rough, sleepy burrs clinging to the edges of his voice.

"Uh, yeah. Guess so," she replied, looking for something, anything, to say.

"You're worried," he said slowly, forehead creasing. She cursed. He would have to pick _now_ to develop a sixth sense about her emotions, wouldn't he?

"Nah, nah, it's nothing. Y'know, silly little things-"

"You, Yuffie, _are_ a silly little thing, and other silly little things are more than enough trouble for you," he murmured, somewhere between affectionate teasing and genuine concern.

She threw her hands up, exasperated. "Vince, the way rumour travels, the whole damn country will know what went on last night. I mean, everyone. They're all expecting me to come out single, and we just had to go and get back together again, and there'll be gossip, and, just...argh!"

"That's not it," he said, concentrating now, gazing into her eyes as if he might find the answers there.

She sighed, and took a deep, steadying breath. "Look, Vincent. Last night, you said you were willing to spend, well, forever with me. But what if I'm not ready to spend forever with you? I don't know if I can. It all seems so...vast," she said, tailing off at the last moment. Her gut hurt. It felt like she'd thrown the words up, rather than said them, but she felt better for having done it.

"Hn," he muttered, and frowned. She could almost see the thoughts being converted, slowly and painfully, to words in his mind. He still wasn't great at talking to people. He never would be.

"Yuffie," he began, and faltered. He took a lungful of air and started again. "Change is...inevitable. When I woke up from my slumber, the entire world I knew...gone. One day, I will wake up, and this world I know now will be gone, too. You, too, will be gone. But, if I have learned anything from you, from AVALANCHE, from this escapade, it is that...that-"

"Go on, Vince," she said, sure he was about to break, to leave it unfinished.

"That we should not let what might happen in the future overshadow what we could have in the present," he sighed, too quickly and in one breath.

She shook her head, slowly. He was right, in a way, but it wasn't really an answer. There was no resolution there, no grand revelation. But maybe life was just that way.

"Come on, Vince. I think that's enough for the moment. Maybe we'll figure it out over breakfast. I'm sure we've still got some bacon or something," she said absently.

"Of course. There will be enough time for bacon _and_ philosophy; in my experience, there always is," he says, starting to go through the motions and routines of another day.

The world was a funny old place, and it would take her a long time to work it all out. At least she had someone to work it out with.

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A/N: More sappiness.


	147. Bulletproof II

A/N: This one's for Kitty Materia Princess. Thanks! (Note: Contains original material.)

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Disclaimer: Crazy Diego's got crazy, crazy low prices! And the rights to FFVII.

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His arm shook. No, quaked. It trembled like a leaf in a storm, a kitten before a dog. He didn't care.

The rain had poured that night. The storm drains overflowed, the smell of rank, rotten sewage finding its way onto the streets overhead. _It's pouring down, _he thought, _on the best night of my life_. He held the gun steadier, trying once more to hit his target. A box of bullets lay open on a wooden crate next to him, still nearly full. An empty one lay next to it. His target had been peppered with shots, none of them on target. His hands were slippery, but still he kept shooting. The recoil (so powerful!) sent deep, lasting aches into his shoulders, down his back, through the bones of his hands. Sweat dripped from his forehead.

"Vincent? Where are you?"

He ignored it. One more shot. He needed to hit. He _needed_ to hit. He squeezed the trigger once more, and another bullet missed the target. There was a creak, somewhere, but it was only a small thing, not a big thing like this, and he needed to hit. Another shot, and it hit the shoulder this time. Closer, closer. He braced his left hand more tightly against the gun. Squeeze. Hit. Right arm. Not close enough. Squeeze. Hit. Shoulder. Back to where he started. Squeeze. Hit. The right ear! So close now. Squeeze-

"Vincent? Are you- oh, God!"

The shot never rang out. He was scooped into a pair of arms, and his gun was taken from him and placed on the crate. He was wept over. He was powerless. The spell broke.

"Father?" he asked, his voice creeping from his throat.

"Vincent, look at yourself. Look at what you've been doing," Grimoire said.

There was blood on the floor. Curiously, Vincent traced it back to his own hands. The skin was broken, weeping from so many recoils. His left shoulder ached somewhere deep and permanent. His legs were trembling. His arms were trembling. When was the last time he'd eaten? It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. And it all led back to that little gun, laid peacefully on the grate, all slick black metal against the wood. There was a power in that gun, he decided. Power to fascinate, power to hypnotise. And power to kill. He had a new-found respect for it. It would last him all his life.

"Vincent. We need to go home," Grimoire said, and sadness tinged his voice.

"I'm going to get them," Vincent replied, almost sullenly.

"Hm?"

"I'm going to get them. The ones who killed mother. I'm going to get them myself," he said again, and he felt a deep growl in his soul. He was going to get them, with that gun.

"Vincent, no. Revenge begets nothing but more revenge," Grimoire said sharply. "Your mother would rather have you grow up happy and normal than be avenged."

"And when did she tell you that? Did she write it to you in your books or your _thesis_?" he said scornfully. "Hide behind your books if you want, father. But I'm going to get them. For her."

Grimoire Valentine shook his head with a sadness that even Vincent was never to know. And Vincent Valentine, still a child, made his first solemn oath that day, the day he held his first gun. A long time in the future, someone would come up to him and tell him almost nonchalantly that his mother's killers had been captured, and were waiting at headquarters. He could see them, kill them if he wanted. All he had to do was sign his soul on the dotted line.

Turk.

And as he stood, wrapped in his father's arms, he knew his destiny had been set by the words he spoke. But, that time, so long ago, he simply didn't care.

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A/N: A possible backstory for Vincent and why we never hear about his mom (at least to my knowledge). Of course, it's a little clichéd, but oh well. I just felt the need to do a little child Vince. Of course, this is only related by proxy to Yuffie (ie, it shows the respect for guns that he teaches to Yuffie in the first Bulletproof) but I still like it. Sorry I'm so behind; things are pretty hectic at the moment. I'll try and answer everyone's messages/reviews before the week's out.


	148. Dragon Mints

A/N: Phew. Finally back, folks, from a holiday and some hectic organising proceeding it. I'm ready to work, and just about sick to death of the constant delays. From now on, it's a non-stop slog to the finish. I have, at the moment, exactly ONE prompt left. If you have an idea, send it in (quick, before it goes!). If not, I'll make up my own to fill it. No questions asked, no questions answered, and it's time to begin! This prompt is from SragonZ.

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Disclaimer: More delays than British Rail, here comes Pyjamas! (In years gone past, this could have been a Duke Nukem Forever joke.)

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There are some things you do not give to a woman you are desperately trying to attract, no matter how woefully inadequate you are at female relations or how annoyed you are to be forced to attract her. He checked the bag, and wiped his forehead clean of perspiration. The restaurant, styled with futuristic aluminium and fluorescent lights, featured poor service, microscopic portions and a macroscopic bill. It also featured some of the weirdest culinary concoctions he'd ever had the pleasure of avoiding- sagahin eggs with a sauce composed of Grand Horn's milk among them. Trying to shift back into a more traditional frame of romantics, he'd asked a passing waiter (a young man who wore a tuxedo with _swim shorts_, of all things) if perhaps he could get some candles. The waiter disappeared, and an hour later returned with a blinking LED alarm clock, which he placed smugly on the table. Vincent's date, however, tittered. This was good, and one of the only good things to have happened that night.

Vincent's date was middle-aged, with blonde hair that had the texture of Styrofoam and a mole above the apex of her left cheek. She wore a sky blue satin dress with a plunging neckline that showed off the cups of her frilly black bra, and made smoky, throaty overtures about hotel rooms and breakfast tomorrow morning. In short, she was one of many people he would never even consider attempting to attract. She was a boring, conventional, oddly sexless thing that normally he'd cross the street to avoid. She also held vital information on a ex Shinra army splinter cell that may or may not have been planning a massive terrorist attack, and was selling it at a hefty price to Reeve. Relations needed to be kept sweet, and as Vincent was tall, dark, handsome (and world famous), he was it.

Tapping iron fingers against the tabletop in what he _hoped_ was a gesture of hungry anticipation, he stopped a passing waiter (female, fishnet stockings, hair larger and more ridiculous than any other part of her body) and asked for the most expensive bottle of red wine, only to be rebuffed. The waitress explained, in tones that were sweet but condescending, that red wine 'just isn't _in_ anymore' and they only sold white and rose. He gritted his teeth and asked for the most expensive rose. If he was going to drink wine, it had to at least have some colour in it. He turned back to his date to find her making come-hither eyes at him, and stopped himself sighing in exasperation. The most awkward part of the date was yet to come, and he dreaded its arrival.

For, of course, he was expected (according to his own standards and his date's materialistic nature) to present her with a gift. He had, in possibly the most foolish act of any man alive, asked Yuffie Kisaragi to help him pick out a gift suitable for such a calibre of woman.

"Oh, sure. I'll get right on it. I've already got a few ideas. Leave it to me, ol' Vinny boy," she'd grinned maniacally, ushering him from her office and slamming the door very resolutely. He'd paused a second, then drew his gun and blew a hole in the door.

"Don't call me _Vinny Boy,_" he'd growled, and stalked off, sure that was an end to the matter.

Unfortunately, the ninja seemed to have taken offence to it (_why,_ he couldn't fathom) and taken a hefty revenge. Inside the bag she'd packed with 'gifts' for his date were a bunch of weeds, a rock, and a headless teddy bear, all wrapped in toilet paper. Alongside them was a packet of mints, with a note saying _'You need them, Vinny Boy'_.

Regardless of his misgivings, the date rolled on smoothly. He was presented with a butter knife to cut his Fang steak with, and a wine glass for his mandragora soup, but he tolerated it. His date cooed over the food, saying it got her all 'excited' and it was 'arousing' her sense of taste. He stifled another groan.

Whilst his attention was on his own dissatisfaction, his date took advantage and leaned over the table, her bust threatening to break free of her dress and fall into his soup.

"Kiss me, _ma paladin noir,_" she said.

Something snapped in the back of his mind. _What an affront!_ He could deal with the worthless sex-selling, the ridiculous restaurant and her utter materialism, but the insincerity, the besmirching of the traditions of romance? Rage flared within him. Scowling, he reached into the bag.

"Here," he hissed, brandishing the mints at her. "I don't kiss _dragons_ without them."

She pulled back, rearranging her face into an expression of shock that seemed to have been drawn by a five-year-old. "How dare you!"

"How dare I? Because I'm _Vincent Valentine_," he seethed. "Now listen!You go back to your cell of rag-tag extremists and you tell them that I hold them responsible for this affront, and I am going to exact retribution for it on each and every one of them. I will scour the land for them before I subject myself to _this._"

He stood up, knocking over the table as he did so and upsetting her glass of wine onto her dress. Then, he left, brushing aside bewildered waiters every step of the way.

When he arrived back in the office next day to report to Reeve, he was surprised when a jet of water splattered over his cloak. He turned, and saw the barrel of a water pistol poking through the hole he had shot in Yuffie's door. He opened it swiftly, almost knocking over the ninja as he did so.

"Oh, hey, Vince! How'd your date go? I take it you didn't get laid?" she asked with false sweetness.

"Hmph. The mission was a failure," he said professionally.

"But you didn't get any lovin', right?" she winked.

"As if I would stoop to such a level," he grimaced. "Why is it such a concern?"

Yuffie stopped for a moment, and very carefully and deliberately thought about her answer. "Well, I wouldn't want you catching any...diseases. Gotta be careful about _whom_ you decide to get it on with nowadays, am I right?"

"Indeed," he said absently. Her deliberation seemed almost...coy. And was there, perhaps, a double meaning behind her words? But it was Yuffie Kisaragi. She couldn't be attracted to him. Ridiculous.

"Oh, and by the way. I have a present for ya, to thank you for the collateral damage to my door," she said, her tone changing. From her desk, she picked up a dog bowl and handed it to him. It was full to the brim with red wine.

"Drink it, jerk. I wanna enjoy this," she pouted. "Or I could invite Reeve here, and ask him his policy on the destruction of company property."

He sighed, feeling the familiar and unwelcome feeling of guilt welling up in his stomach. He _had_ blown a hole in her door, after all. And considering he willingly blew the mission last night, he didn't want to be annoying Reeve even more. Yuffie smirked. He was beat.

Theatrically, he lowered his head to the bowl and sniffed it. Even if it was humiliating, he wasn't going to waste good wine by drinking it hastily. He was taken aback when it smelt familiar. Too familiar. Pencil sharpenings, smoky, nameless fruit and that particular, ever-so-slight aftersmell of copper...It was one he drank often. His favourite. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Yuffie, who was still grinning smugly. There was no way she could have known.

_But, _he thought as he took his first sip, _this is Yuffie. There is no way she couldn't._

It may have been humiliating. But it wasn't as bad as false romance.

And Yuffie was far from a dragon.

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A/N: And tomorrow we'll roll straight on to the next!


	149. Rock You Like A Hurricane

A/N: Well, if you were hoping to get your mitts on that last prompt, it's gone, folks. The end is truly approaching. (By the way: yes, there will be a special.) I hope you enjoy the end-days of Pyjamas!

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Disclaimer: Brought to you by a raging addiction to soap and the screams of a thousand anguished fangirls.

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It wasn't often that she opened the door and walked straight into an argument. Well, maybe that was a lie, but it wasn't often that Vinny started it. Usually those arguments turned into huge slanging matches about clothes, philosophy, jam traps and anything else they could use to beat each other into moral submission with- in other words, her favourite kind.

"Tell me, Yuffie," he said, looking archly over the top of his newspaper, "Is _all _your music about sex?"

"Oh, He-Of-The-Pointlessly-Fluffy-Hair. Your question is worthy of my attentions, but first I beseech thee to answer me this riddle: why in the name of hell do you care?" she said mock-seriously. His eyebrow twitched. Step one of mission 'Annoy Vince Into Having a really fun argument' complete.

"Well," he said, and cleared his throat, "I was browsing through your CD collection in a moment of idleness-"

"-you mean, snooping when you thought I wasn't looking-"

"-and was surprised that-"

"-in order to establish that-"

"-over 73% of lyrical content is about fornication or the anticipation of it," he finished.

"Gawd, Vince. Just had to break out the maths, didn't you?" she muttered. He didn't hear, or at least pretended not to.

"What have you to say about this?" he prodded.

"Well, I don't see what the problem is. You're the one who encouraged me to get a taste in music, 'culture myself'," she yawned.

"When I said that, I was thinking more violins than electric bass," he growled. Step two of annoy Vinny: use his own arguments against him. Now for step three.

"Now _why_ would you want me to like violins, Vinny? Could it be because of those two tickets to

the orchestra you hid under the bed?" she teased lightly. His face shifted to 'I am not amused' mode.

"How did you find those? They were meant to be an anniversary present," he said, a little too low for her tastes. Where was the shouting, the anger, the drama?

"You hid them. Under the bed. I mean, come on. That's where I hide _my_ stuff."

"There was none there when I looked," he said, looking thoughtful.

"Duh. I'm better at hiding stuff than you. Why would you take me to an _orchestra_, anyway?" she asked, making sure her tone was accusing. She was starting to get bored.

"Because I enjoy your company, Yuffie. I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it more when I can't hear you."

"Oh, _good boy_," she all but purred. Sarcastic, cutting, and well-delivered. He'd picked that up from her, no doubt about it. He looked confused.

"Do you _know_ how hard it is to get a good argument outta you, Vince? I mean, I've been trying for months now," she said offhandedly.

His face, however, remained the very definition of 'nonplussed'. "Why, exactly, would you want to argue with me?"

"I dunno. Hot make-up sex?" she joked, although he didn't get it. "Nah. Think of it this way, Vince: a cacophony of raised voices is a kind of music too."

His eyes narrowed. "You picked that up from _me_."

She grinned. He was getting sharper, too. Now all she had to do was work on the whole stoicism issue, and he'd be as fun to argue with as any other guy.

"I still do not see why you'd enjoy arguing with me. After all, I generally win," he said, arching an eyebrow smugly.

"Oh, shut up. You'd better be nice to me if you expect me to sit around listening to violins all day."

"Violins are a beautiful instrument. I would play one myself, if I could."

"They're _awful._ You ever heard anyone play a symphony on a cat's whiskers while the cat screams at you? That's what they sound like."

"Bah. Ridiculous," he sniffed.

"Not as ridiculous as your damn shoes. Can't you wear sneakers? I'm sick of those weird footprints you make when you track jam into the house."

"I wouldn't track jam if you'd just stop setting traps everywhere!"

"I'd stop setting traps everywhere if you'd quit being boring and help me throw water balloons at the neighbours!"

"Yuffie, what part of 'I have sharp, metal fingers' do you fail to comprehend?"

She grinned to herself. This was starting to turn into a real argument, now. She didn't like having to use him like that, but she needed to burn off her stress somehow, and stapling Reeve's coat to the wall just wasn't cutting it these days.

Besides, she thought as Vincent dropped his voice another octave, in the rhythms of everyday life, there were times when everyone needed a nice, loud crescendo.

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A/N: Somewhat weird prompt that I had trouble getting to grips with. 'Rock You Like A Hurricane' is, of course, a song by the Scorpions, and is very much about sex so far as I can see. (Also, I know I was late in updating; my internet connection is woeful at the moment.)


	150. Royal Wedding

A/N: This chapter courtesy of Kitty Materia Princess, suggested for the British Royal wedding that happened, oh, I don't know, forever ago.

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Disclaimer: I quote the wisest lawyer ever to have written a contract: "Nobody reads this and I don't care, doo-dah, doo-dah, nobody reads this and I don't care, oh the doo-dah-day."

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Ryoji grimaced, and decided that, bereft of anything better to do, he'd look at the bright side of the situation. He'd been the first to arrive when a disturbance was noticed at the Pagoda, there was no doubt about that. There was valour in it, the willingness to give one's life for one's liege. In fact, he got there so early that he was just in time to catch The Princess's fist with his face as she stormed from the building. He didn't quite know what the altercation was about, but he guessed it had something to do with Godo and some suitors for the princess. It usually was. As a loyal warrior of Wutai, one of the few remaining, he could not suppress a tremor in his heart as he thought of the topic of succession. Princess Yuffie was not, all things considered, what one would expect a typical ruler to be. The entire town was on edge, truth be told; whatever lay in the future, stability was not on the menu. Still, if the princess could be married to a responsible suitor...

He shook his head. Such stressful thoughts would delay his recovery. He felt his nose gingerly, fingers automatically moving to where the fracture was. Whether she would be a good ruler or not, he had to admit: Princess Yuffie had a good right hook.

* * *

There were few times in Ryoji's life when he had been truly scared. Today was one of them. He had been called to the throne room on what he assumed would be routine duties. He was wrong.

"You're sick, old man! Of all the goddamn crazy things I thought you'd do, this was number three!" Yuffie Kisaragi shouted at the top of her voice as Ryoji discreetly took his post. Godo looked bored. He had obviously expected this.

"Yuffie, be reasonable. Marriage is a wonderful thing," the old man said. In response, the princess spat on the floor. Twice. Ryoji averted his eyes, and found them drawn to a man he hadn't noticed before; a dark man, with a mane of gnarled black hair and a fashion sense that deserved all the unkind remarks it drew. The name escaped him. But he looked suspicious.

"Yuffie," the man warned, and put a hand on the princess's shoulder.

Ryoji, reacting quickly, hefted his spear at the strange man.

The man, reacting even more quickly, shot him. The gun had left the holster, fired and returned before Ryoji could even register it. A second later it hit him; the crash of the shot, the waves of pain blazing from his shin.

"Oh _great_, Vince. It's so hard to get good help these days, and what do you go and do? Shoot them. Sorry, Pops, but meeting's off. I'd better get this guy to the infirmary," Yuffie groaned. The man- Vince?- at least had the decency to look awkward.

As he was carried away on the princess's shoulder, bereft of dignity, and the screams tore themselves loose from his lips, Ryoji heard Godo say something.

"My thanks for the distraction."

"A pleasure," the stranger rumbled in return.

* * *

Vincent Valentine. Ryoji had much time to contemplate the man as he lay in hospital. He collected information, gossip mainly, from the nurses and doctors who treated him. They said the man was a monster, a demon who had saved the world. They said his name was feared across three continents, and that not even monsters dared disturb him. He was also said to drink the blood of maidens- and, rumour had it, he was courting the princess. The last part was a great weight on the guard's mind as he lay recovering. A stranger, non-Wutaian, marrying into the royal family? His first thought was that it was ridiculous, and the second that it would be an act of hypocrisy. He could not believe that the Princess, the ninja who had fought so long and hard to recapture the traditions and culture that had been suppressed in Shinra's occupation, would throw them away as soon as it suited her. The royal family did not marry outside Wutai; that was how it was, and how it had always been.

More now than ever, he feared the chaos that would undoubtedly explode when Yuffie Kisaragi came to rule Wutai. And he feared the man, with the blazing eyes, who heralded the end of the old ways.

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"Oh, pops. You're crazy, you know that? Just...nutso. I can't believe you."

Six months had swept great changes through Wutai. Ryoji had recovered and was back in the employ of the palace, driven with a new resolve to protect the stability of the place in which he lived. However, the scent of secrecy had slowed started to pervade the palace. Godo rarely showed his face in public anymore, and the Princess's _suitor_ (Ryoji choked on the word) was becoming a more and more recurrent fixture. Plans were being carried out by covert means, and he didn't like it one bit.

However, the veil of secrecy was all but lifted when the Kisaragis announced there was to be a grand feast in the town, followed by a festival lasting a day and a night. All were invited to make merry and celebrate. It could mean only one thing: a wedding.

"Crazy I may be, daughter, but I am crazy in the way only the wisest of kings may be. My time is running out, and you alone are not suited to the throne of Wutai. It must be done."

With his ear pressed to the keyhole of the throne room, Ryoji thought, just for a second, he heard the Princess sob.

"Godo-"

"Vincent Valentine, I have told you many times to call me Father," the king commanded. Ryoji gritted his teeth.

"_Father._ I believe this may be too great a sacrifice," the smoky voice murmured. "It will give Wutai stability, but at what cost to Yuffie?"

"Hmph. The young always think they know best," the king scoffed. "It will barely affect her."

"Pah! Not as much as old men like you!" the Princess spat. "Besides, Vinny isn't exactly..._young_. Really, you should be calling _him_ father."

"It's the principle of the thing," the king said absently. "Cease trying to negotiate with me. My mind is made up. I have promised the people of Wutai a wedding, and a wedding there shall be. Prepare yourself, daughter! And you, too, he who I will call son!"

Ryoji groaned, and drew back from the door just before Yuffie barrelled out of it, a face with the fury of lightning and a step as light as thunder. Vincent Valentine followed swiftly in her wake, nodding courteously to Ryoji as he went.

* * *

The Princess sighed. Wrapped tightly in a snow white kimono with elbow high gloves, she did not seem dressed as one who was to be married; at least, not to Ryoji. The thought gave him cheer as he watched the Princess bustle from one room to another, a bundle of nervous energy. He had no doubt that the marriage of Yuffie Kisaragi and Vincent Valentine would be the worst fate that could befall Wutai.

As soon as he thought the name, the man appeared as if summoned. He was not dressed in the standard black suit favoured by his culture, but in a blue one. In it, his movements seemed uncannily precise, and no emotion touched his red eyes. The princess looked in wonder.

"Godo insisted," he said, and the princess groaned. "I was not in favour of the plan myself."

"I didn't know you even had your Turk suit," Yuffie said, straightening the tie; red, and somewhat soiled.

"Tseng graciously lent me his," Vincent rumbled, as if Tseng's graciousness was the last thing he wanted. "Are you okay, Yuffie?"

The princess thought for a second. Her voice trembled when she spoke. "I dunno. I just...never thought I'd see the day, y'know?"

"Nor I," the gunman returned thoughtfully. "It is not the first time the future has taken me by surprise. Shall we go?"

The princess frowned, but nodded, and placed her hand on the crook of Valentine's elbow.

"Nice job on hiding the hand, by the way," she whispered, as she left the room. Ryoji felt deeply uneasy, but followed anyway. Something very, very wrong was about to happen.

* * *

"You may now kiss the bride."

The bride accepted the kiss, blushing furiously. There was a smattering of applause, that grew into a tidal wave of shocked approval. Ryoji found his own hands clapping almost by their own accord.

"Hot damn. Didn't think the old fart would go through with it. Marrying the maid, huh? Well, at least it puts another buffer between me and the throne," Yuffie Kisaragi chuckled, clapping with the crowd.

"Indeed. Although, that keeps you from your birthright. And it's a great sacrifice for your father to make for you, to marry out of duty and not love," Valentine said critically.

"Huh? Oh, he's been bedding that maid for the best part of six years, so I wouldn't call it a sacrifice. Hell, Vince, we're not savages, y'know. Dunno what they do in _your _home town, but here we marry for the _right_ reasons."

"Then I cannot help but wonder why you were so against it."

The princess's tone dropped, descending from jovial to sensitive in the space of a thought. Ryoji hadn't heard the like from her before.

"I...dunno," she said, raising her hands and letting them fall back to her waist. "I guess...I sorta thought it was disrespectful to my mom, y'know? But I went to her grave last night and had a chat with her to make sure it all checked out. She'd have wanted the old fart to be happy."

"I see. I'd...like to see her grave myself. To...pay my respects," Valentine said, and there was something like warmth in his voice.

"Oh, don't bother. I already talked to her about you," the princess laughed. "She says you're welcome to give me a ring, but you should probably cut your hair first."

"I have told you time and again, Yuffie. I refuse to marry you if you continue putting your shoes in the refrigerator. They make it smell unpleasant, and there is no place to put the ham."

"Dork," she said affectionately, and ruffled the hair she said she wanted cut. "You'll cave before I do, you know."

"I know," he said, hints of laughter dancing under the surface. "But in the meantime, let us depart for the buffet. I have heard great things about the cuisine of Wutai, and I must experience it for myself."

Ryoji watched as they walked away, Yuffie leaping onto his back despite her kimono. He wasn't sure what the two would hold for Wutai, when finally the time came for Yuffie to rule. He couldn't shake the thought that bad luck followed them. But, for now, he would give them the benefit of the doubt, and join them in celebration.

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A/N: Phew! Extra long this time, simply to facilitate the bait and switch. (Come on. You didn't _really_ think I was going to do it, did you?) It was also an experiment into showing how an outsider, not necessarily a sympathetic one, would think of their relationship.


	151. Low Blood Sugar Migraine

A/N: This one comes direct from tinkerheck. Thanks! (Warning: head-trip within.)

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Disclaimer: The world's ending, and all you can think of is lawsuits?

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Words, lucid and black, drip off the brush. Reality shimmers, the mirage of a desert traveller. Time ticks, clocks tick. No difference at all. Just words, lucid and black, dripping from the brush.

The world turns. Unbelievable, they say, the way the future falls. Monsters, meteors, mania. Unbelievable.

Why?

How can it be unbelievable, when it's all they've ever known? Who can disbelieve the world that birthed them, the walls that shaped them, the ever turning spiral that screws them down?

Yuffie Kisaragi, lively ninja. A person in four words. Summed up and summarily dismissed, a nonentity, an archetype. An archetype that thought, that lived and breathed.

As archetypes did.

The questions became answers to themselves, as all good questions did. Dripping off the brush. No time in this world to answer them properly, just keep asking questions until you forget the ones that came before.

A destiny, perhaps, or what passed for it. Sunshine pouring down on park benches, dripping sultry off the trees. Ice cream cones, one in each hand, anaesthesia for life's worries. Poetry, recited from a dusky voice. Falseness, awkwardness, the feeling of being pushed by fate. Contact.

Heat.

Misunderstandings pressed against each other. Fistfuls of moth-eaten cloth. The flow of her neck, curved gracefully up at him. He uses apple-scented conditioner. Vincent Valentine, mysterious atoner. Another archetype, one that lives and breathes as archetypes do.

Archetypes are not cool and smooth under your fingertips, do not bleed when you scratch them. They do not howl.

The world ends slowly. They rush. An open door, leading to blackness within; they push through, groping. The coolness of an open house, enveloping entropy. He stops and contemplates a cup of coffee. She pulls harder. Through, through the hallway and into the lounge. Shimmering coolness, a house unchristened. No human soul lives here.

Just archetypes, that live and breathe and bleed and howl, as archetypes do.

Their words come in bursts, moments of revelation, lucid and black and dripping from the brush. The picture is incomplete, they feel, the story unwritten. Fate's handwriting is childish and illegible. The glass of the coffee table, cold and unyielding against her naked back.

Dialogue, scribbled out and redrafted with each passing sigh. The television remains off. Minutes that contain days pass like seconds for years at a time. A joke to break the tension, a secret to remake it. She winks but does not know it. There is a scar on her left thigh where she was bitten by an insect.

The house is no longer cool.

Regret, fleeting and unconvincing. Hope, more so. Reality shimmers. The coffee table has been broken but neither of them had noticed it. The door remains open. They are unashamed. His hair does not smell of apples anymore.

A cascade of ice tumbling down into whiskey. Brace, grimace, spit. Drink. He knows no other way. Words, lucid and black, dripping from the brush, falling between them. The truth that they had long suppressed, a truth of differences, brought kicking and screaming into the light.

Archetypes do not love.

Her hand on his arm, thumb rubbing elliptical circles on the skin near his wrist. He fears being consumed by those circles. She laughs at him. He bites at her, and she falls silent. Her hand remains where it is. The circles do not cease.

The world turns. Unbelievable, they say, the way the world whirls. A brat and a loner, living together like lovers. Just archetypes, they mutter. Archetypes do not love.

'They' is also an archetype.

She feels emptier and more full than ever before. She has achieved understanding and mourns the mystery, achieved life and mourned the death. The world is not a simple place. Circles are never circles, mirages are never mirages, the words do not drip lucid and black from the brush. All people grow into archetypes until they grow into people again, and some never do.

She leans her head against his chest, brow against heart. The heart beats and her mind with it. Perhaps that is all there is. They look up at the sky, red in the morning, and know that the world is slowly ending. So they rush.

For this is a world of sense and sensation, Pandemonium and Paradise rolled into one. A world of words and circles and coffee, of ice cream and apples and low blood sugar migraines. It is a world of experience.

And, like the story they write with the words that drip from the brush, they will make it their own.

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A/N: Something of a more experimental piece, written in some emulation of prose-poetry; it wasn't planned, so may bear some resemblance to a free-writing or flow of thought piece. I have no idea what happened in it, and am content to believe nothing did.


	152. Dipped In Dark Chocolate

A/N: This is the second in a row from Tinkerheck. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: **Yours is the lawsuit that will pierce the heavens!**

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There was no denying that, in her own way, Yuffie was far wiser than Vincent. This was, after all, a man who still believed that the best solution to a problem is to shoot it dead. She, too, had once thought as he did; however, after being reminded that stabbing her maths homework fifty-three times with a rusty compass did not count as 'finishing' it, she learned more subtle tactics.

Likewise, his attitude to interior decorating was ridiculous. Why bother to have candles when you can just build lava lamps into the walls? Why bother with beds when you could have king sized hammocks? Why bother with a TV if you could just make a huge window and pour water over passers-by from time to time?

Although, to be fair, it wasn't exactly hard to be wiser than a guy who didn't like dark chocolate.

"Vinny, give me three good reasons why you don't want dark chocolate on your birthday cake," she groaned over a milkshake.

"First, I do not desire a birthday cake. Tracking my age is confusing, and I gave up shortly after the Deepground incident," he said, tapping metal fingers against the glass- tink, tink, tink.

"Blah, blah, blah. What you mean is that you're a pathetic emo with crippling self-esteem problems and you think no one will come to your birthday because you're boring and stuffy."

"Well, I'm sure that if I _were_ such an 'emo', that summary of events would do wonders for my flagging self-esteem," he sniffed.

"I know, right?" she chirped, flashing her teeth.

"Secondly, dark chocolate is not a traditional covering for a cake of any description, milk chocolate being the standard. At least, this is what Tifa's books regarding bakery say, and I am not inclined to doubt the quality of her cooking."

"Well, _I _am. What part of 'stop putting whiskey in fairy cakes' does she not understand-"

"- the same part of 'wasabi is not a cake ingredient' that you ignore, I expect," he interrupted, arching an eyebrow.

"Those weren't cakes," she lied smoothly. "They're an old fashioned family remedy, for, uh, constipation. That's it. Constipation."

"Cloud tells me they did their job," he scowled. "My third reason for not wanting dark chocolate is because I do not trust you an inch."

Wow. He didn't trust her? How terrible, how heartbreaking. She fought the urge to fake a sniffle. Maybe he wasn't quite as dumb as he was letting on.

"Come, Yuffie. You didn't think I would notice the theme? You refer to me as a gothic vampire, draw attention to my fashion sense in public, and then browbeat me to have a _dark_ chocolate cake? You are attempting to manufacture me into something I am not: a teenage stereotype," he seethed.

Wow. He was actually getting pretty sharp, after three years of being the bluntest metal claw in the box. He was entirely wrong, of course, but at least he was trying.

"Actually, Vince, the reason I made a dark chocolate cake is because I like it and you don't. Therefore, you'll give it to me, and I'll spend the next three hours bounding around the house on a sugar high," she grinned, then gulped down the last of her milkshake.

"...Why not simply bake a cake for me, then bake another one for yourself?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Oh, Vinny, Vinny, Vinny," she tutted, shaking her finger. He had a lot to learn after all. "That'd take all the fun and stolen-food-goodness out of it."

He stared at her for a second, then shrugged. He couldn't comprehend her sometimes.

"B'sides," she called as he stood up to pay the bill, "Chocolate's an aphrodisiac."

"I'm aware of this," he deadpanned as she began to grin wickedly, "But I thought the effect was confined to women."

"Yup, women. Like me and you."

"Yuffie, I am a _man_. I did not realise you were quite so gender confused. Cloud is a poor influence on you sometimes," he hissed.

"Oh, come on. You're so lesbian for me, I swear," she trilled in a sing-song voice.

Wisdom, she thought, was not taking the world too seriously. Everything always worked out in the end, regardless of how much trouble you had on the way. Sometimes, Vince was a little too gloomy to get that. Still, she knew now that he'd be a sport and eat his cake just to avoid having her on a huge sugar high afterwards. He'd have his cake and eat it.

Which was precisely why she put so much wasabi in it.

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A/N: Just a silly little thing. Next!


	153. Candlelit Dinner II

A/N: This one's a request to me from me- like a birthday present or something. Enjoy! (Note: I've edited this from the original edition. I think this one's way better.)

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Disclaimer: Objects in the mirror may be closer than the mirror.

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The room is warm, candles shedding heat and light through the expanse of the restaurant. Outside, a winter wind howls, driving the people of the city scurrying back into their homes. Thick reams of glossy silk are draped over the tables, bathed in the soft amber glow of the candle flames. All is prepared.

Except, of course, the paying customers. The manager of the restaurant was no fool. He wasn't selling food, he was selling romance in a tin, and every happy couple was like a fat, waddling wallet on legs. He sniffs. One of his eyebrows is eternally raised, the other swooping down over the ridge of his eye. He wears only the starchiest white shirts, the crispest black trousers and a never-changing expression of vague mortification. But for all that, there are still no customers.

Elsewhere, at Seventh Heaven, a cork erupts joyfully from a bottle. Cloud pours with stuff shoulders. He's not used to pouring champagne. He's not used to wearing a suit, for that matter, or trying to arrange a cutlery on a table so it doesn't look like a mad pierrot was using it as knife throwing practice. He tries to ignore the fact that there are scorch marks in the tablecloth from the last time he knocked the candles over.

Tifa sits languidly, running one finger around the rim of her champagne glass, concentrating on the ethereal note it plays. She doesn't want her thoughts to show on her face, because what she's thinking is that champagne isn't _real_ alcohol, and that as a former slum barmaid it was an affront to her sensibilities. She's also thinking that there is no way in hell someone with Cloud's colourful background will be a good chef. She appreciates the effort, honestly she does, but carefully makes plans to handle the romantic meals herself in future. Still, seeing Cloud in a suit was probably worth the price of a bad meal. She can't decide if he's adorable or hilarious when he wears one. Brushed steel blazers and blonde spiked hair are an _interesting_ juxtaposition.

After disappearing back into the kitchen for a quarter of an hour, in which time the champange has curiously found its way into the dustbin and a good bottle of whiskey has appeared in its place, Cloud returns with a plate threatening to leap from his grip. He makes an odd, twisting walk to the table, counterbalancing the plate as it shifts, and places it in front of her. What she can make out is chicken, gravy and some sort of brown mush. She smiles glitteringly at him as he goes to fetch another plate for him, and braces herself for what promises to be an experience, if nothing else. The point is that he tried. She just hopes he has a mint for when she kisses him goodnight.

"So, Vinny Boy. What've we learned today?" Yuffie asks, half a city away, a few tealights speckled across the chequered tablecloth.

"That draughts is a ridiculous game, and not worth the effort of playing," he sniffs.

"Don't suppose the seven-nil win streak I'm on has anything to do with that, does it? Whatever, dork. You should see me play Wutai Scrabble. I've got words for things your puny emo mind wouldn't even comprehend," she grins. "You haven't touched your orange juice, by the way."

"Hn. Enjoy your success whilst you can, Yuffie. I fully intend to exact my revenge on the chessboard," he says, picking up his tumbler of orange juice and taking a swig.

"Yeah, yeah. Quit mouthing off and check the oven, wouldja? I gotta think of my game plan."

"Was it not your idea to stay in and have a romantic meal together? If so, how, then, did I end up cooking?" he grumbles, but gets up anyway. He knows why. It's because Yuffie can't cook anything further up the culinary food chain than instant noodles.

"Well, I can't think of anything more romantic and enjoyable than kicking your ass at games of strategy. I like the look of surprise you get when all your best laid plans explode in your face like a shower of jam," she grins, leaning back in her chair.

"Don't start the jam thing again, Yuffie," he warns, checking the oven. The meal is done. He grabs her kanji-print oven mit, places it over his good hand and takes it out. The fragrant smell of pizzas fills the air.

She grins, and takes up her knife and fork in anticipation whilst he carries it to the table. "Oh, _yeah_. Forget your clarinets and your basket of beef. Good pizza is one of life's simple pleasures," she purrs.

"That's 'claret' and 'brisket'. If you're as poor at chess as you are at cooking, then the night is already won," he says, and takes a slice. She's right, though.

"Say, about the whole 'chess' thing...Can we, say, spice it up a little?" she asks, in between ramming pizza into her mouth. "I mean-"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not, Vince? I keep telling you, strip chess is _amazing-_"

"Are you aware how difficult it is to remove a full leather bodysuit, Yuffie?" he asks archly.

"Oh, who cares. You know full well I'll have taken your clothes off by the end of the night anyway," she yawns. "I didn't go through all the trouble of setting a table to _not_ have wild sex on top of it."

"And they said romance was dead," he says, and rolls his eyes.

They finish the meal in easy silence, and she takes out the plate and comes back with a chess set of ivory and oak. Before she sets it up, she looks him square in the eyes, and says, in an unusually subdued voice, "Vince? I love you, y'know."

"And I you, Yuffie, but that doesn't mean I intend to throw the match."

"Aw, man. Just for that, I'm gonna make all the mating puns I can think of..."

The tea lights flicker, and the conversation devolves into threats, taunts and bawdy humour. They know perfectly well that there's more than one way to mate a king, and more than one way to have a candlelit dinner.

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A/N: Phew! I like this way more than the first.


	154. Lawyers

A/N: This one's from partyholic. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: No, I expect you to cry in court, Mr Bond.

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The sky is bruised purple silk, a thousand subtle blues and indigos woven into the tapestry of the night. The moon hangs like a milky halo within it, floating languidly between the warp and the weave.

Yuffie Kisaragi hangs upside down from the bannister, and everytime he walks by, she swoops down gracefully, anchored to the rails by her feet, and brushes her lips against his forehead. She must be doing it for practice, he reasons. It doesn't change the fact that he expects to be knocked over when he sees her close in. Perhaps it's a human reaction, perhaps a lack of faith. Whatever it is, it isn't getting the laundry done.

"One pass, one kiss, Vince. Them's the rules," she says seriously on the tenth pass. The effect is ruined by her hair hanging straight down, as if she were being electrocuted the wrong way up.

"And? So far, they have been adhered to," he says, a bundle of washing in his arms.

"Ten passes? For the _laundry_? You wouldn't be slacking off to try and get extra, would you?" she scowls, the blood beginning to rush to her head and turn her face red.

"Hn. I was not aware I was dating a lawyer," he says, trying not to show his amusement on his face. She _does_ look ridiculous.

"Shut up, Vamp," she says, her voice sounding a little more woozy than usual. Wisely, she flips back up to the railings again. "Just letting you know that if this carries on much longer, I'm going to start practising headbutts instead."

"No need for that, Yuffie. This is the last lot of clothes," he tells her.

What he doesn't tell her is how he divided it into exactly ten piles before he brought it up.

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A/N: Fluffy shortness, of course. Of course, the washing machine he's using is the Super Mako Jenova Washing Machine (it followed them home). Yay for in-jokes! Also, the whole set-up is sorta a reference to Cage/Wing.


	155. I See The Truth

A/N: This one's from JIN-HAYTeR. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: If you read all the previous disclaimers backwards in a specific order, it will show you a clue to a secret lost treasure the likes of which the world has never seen. (It's like the Da Vinci Code, but with way more lawyer bashing. Hint: George Lucas holds the first seal.)

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"Come on, Vince," I whined. Whining is a good tactic, second only to nut shots, and without as many consequences later. I support whining. "Concentrate."

"On what, pray tell?" he asked back, waving his gun around. I say asked, but he did it in the same voice you'd use to ask who shot your son.

"On the reeds, dummy, on the reeds!" I sighed, pointing towards the truly massive expanse of them growing in the swamp.

"What _about_ them?"

"One of them is painted a slightly different colour than the others. Shoot it," I commanded. Commanding is also an excellent tactic. I support commanding.

"Yuffie, that is a ridiculous exercise. It could be any one of them, and if the colour is only slightly different, the chances of being able to discern it are-"

"Not great. But, you're not supposed to use your eyes, dork. You use your zen think-a-ma-tron," I grinned. He rolled his eyes and then went back to scanning the swamp. "It's easy. You gotta think sideways, like a ninja would. You know who painted the reed; therefore, you know which reed they painted."

"I know I expressed an interest in the ninja ways, Yuffie, but shooting reeds still seems a waste of valuable time and bullets," he seethed, but carried on scanning the swamp.

I smiled, and took a little time to enjoy the moment. Here was the big, bad Vincey Pants, doing something he thought was ridiculous to show an interest in my culture and tradition. And he was _sucking_ at it. I mean, I love the big lug, but sometimes the 'I can shoot anything from any distance because I'm freaking _magic_ and I've got demons in my soul' thing kinda gets old. I understand from Teef that she gets the same thing with Cloud sometimes, except when she shows him up he goes into the desert for a week and then comes back with sunburn and three new mooks who want to kill him. Maybe it's a man thing.

The point, though, is that Vince finally believed in me enough to do things I say even when they don't have a very good reason. He trusted me. That's an important quality when you're sidekick to the world's most awesome ninja.

On the other hand, trust is for the weak. And he was standing awfully close to that swamp...

A moment of deliberation. A breath. Then, I lunged, planting my hand on the small of his back and shoving hard, putting all my weight into it-

And then suddenly everything was wet.

"Hn. I know who painted the reed- or, at least, _who said_ she painted the reed. In reality, there was none. A Turk always differentiates between what people say is happening and what is actually happening," he smirked, sitting down cross-legged on the bank. "Because it was you, I was certain you were attempting a trick."

I spat out some swamp water and looked at my clothes. Ruined. And, let me say right now, swamp water smells pretty bad, boys and girls. Don't play in swamps. They suck.

"Vince, you know I hate you, right?" I snarled.

"I know you well enough to see through your trick, so I know perfectly well you do not," he grinned, and I splashed as much swamp water as I could at his smug face. He'd sat just too far away for any of it to reach him, of course.

"You're a jerk. A complete jerk. I don't even know why I like you," I sniffed.

"Because I understand you completely, Yuffie, and therefore know the time has come to hastily procure some ice-cream, so as to avert further pranks when we get home."

I thought for a second. "Five flavours?"

"For a disaster of this magnitude? Seven, I should think," he replied thoughtfully.

"Good boy. And some new clothes, too. Swamp water's _icky_," I groaned, accepting his hand as he lifted me out.

He wrapped his mantle around me (it was so mouldy, even swamp water couldn't hurt it) and we started walking to the jeep Reeve had lent us (read: I had carefully borrowed without being seen). As we walked, he looked thoughtful.

"Yuffie," he said hesitantly, "If we are to procure you some new clothes, perhaps you might indulge my fancy and try a dress? I have long wanted to see you in one."

It took a few seconds before it dawned on me. "Hey, wait. You did this on purpose!"

"Weren't you the one who set up this test?" he asked, avoiding the issue entirely.

"But you knew what I was going to do! And now that I know you knew what I knew I was going to do, I know why you let me do what you knew I knew I was going to do!" I shouted triumphantly. I didn't know what I was talking about, but I was talking about it convincingly.

"...So, you think I clandestinely manipulated you to organise this test, so I could have the opportunity to buy you things?" he asked. "Perhaps I do not understand you as well as I had thought."

"Whatever. No dresses!" I pouted.

"Murder on the heart but mercy on the wallet, I suppose," he sighed.

"Now, about that ice-cream..."

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A/N: I really wasn't feeling this one; my greatest apologies. Now that I've finally rejoined the collection, I'll be doing a full post of the rest of the chapters. It's about time we called this book closed.


	156. Rainbow Superman

A/N: Another one that I wasn't quite feeling at the time, courtesy of SragonZ!

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Disclaimer: Numb arm! Numb arm! N'ARM!

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"That, Vinny, is one of the greatest tragedies known to man," Yuffie announced, pointing. He raised an eyebrow. All he saw was a rather rotund gentleman trying (and failing) to operate the seaside museum's revolving door. In lieu of anything constructive to say, he leant against the railing on the boardwalk.

"Y'know, there are billions of atoms in that guy making up millions of cells, all of them doing exactly the right thing at the right time. He's the product of thousands of years of successful breeding, of ancestors who defied plagues and battles and natural disasters to pass on their genetic code-"

"Yuffie, I do not see why you consider this a tragedy. In the light you portray it, it seems rather more like a miracle," he interrupted cooly.

"-thousands of years of evolution, utter perfection from the laws of physics, and it all culminates in a guy that can't work a god-damn door. Now _that's_ tragedy," she finished grandly.

He allowed himself a chuckle. Just the one. There was, after all, no point in being extravagant.

"Hey, hey. I show you the greatest mundane tragedy in human existence, and you start giggling? Heartless git. What do you do when you want a real laugh, watch horses march into the glue factory?" she said, her grin becoming less light-hearted and more dangerous. He cleared his throat.

"The greatest mundane tragedy in _my_ existence, Yuffie, is the language you seem to be learning from Cid. I am already forced to endure your continuous interruption of my daily life. I should not be forced to endure your foul mouth, too," he said, with dignity. Dignity was always a good get-out-of-jail-free card in everyday conversation, he found. It was to him what audacity was to Yuffie.

"Better than speaking like you, Von Dorkenstein. Seriously, some of the stuff you've come out with makes me gag. Hadn't you better get going, anyway? After all, it's _time to save the world!_" she smirked.

"Do you _ever_ intend to let that lie? It was one time. And I was somewhat caught up in the moment. Being a living avatar of one of the primal forces that governs your world tends to leave you with less dignity than otherwise," he frowned.

"_Oh, it's Chaos Vinny, here to save the world! Let's all power him up with our special abilities of friendship and love and cuddly puppies! _Gawd, Vince. You should have just swapped your mantle for a cape with a rainbow on it. Oh, but that wouldn't be emo enough, would it? I know, let's write you a tragic backstory to go with your superpowers," she sang mockingly.

"I've changed my mind. The greatest tragedy in my existence, and all the tragic backstory I might ever need, is that I cannot get rid of you," he rasped.

"You know it," she whistled, and went quiet, leaning her elbows on the harbour railing. "Although, you'd probably do better if you actually tried."

"I assumed you'd get eventually get bored and leave me alone," he confessed, following suit and leaning on the railing to peer out over the sea. His gauntlet scraped on the metal and he sniffed in annoyance. "It has not worked so far."

"Well I knew _that!_" she laughed. "You'll have to do more than wait around and be boring to get rid of me. Y'gotta be proactive! Stop waiting until the world's screwed to start saving it, eh?"

"You're intolerable," he sighed.

"All part of the service. Hey, if you're a superhero, does that mean I'm your rival? Or maybe I'm even your archnemesis? 'Galactic Dark Magical Ninja Girl Yuffie, commanding the world with an iron fist! She sends forth her armada of space pirates to wreak havoc and destruction! Only one man can stop her- Supervince!'...Kinda like that, huh?" she said, putting her finger to her mouth in an oddly sweet way.

"And you say I'm a dork," he huffed, and abruptly turned.

"Hey, wait! We didn't even give me a backstory yet! How about I left my home in order to fight an evil empire and then ended up- oh, wait, that's my backstory already. Hey, Vince, wait _up!_"

He sighed, and placed his hand to his forehead. He could only hope that, even if he couldn't get rid of her, he could get her written out.

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A/N: Silly everyday chitter-chatter. That line really did deserve pulling up, though. I actually sorta like the idea of doing something mundane and worthless for prompt 150- I bet you guys were expecting something huge, right?


	157. Diary III

A/N: And here's the 151st prompt, and the last. Or...is it?

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Disclaimer: Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times. (You were born on the ride, and you will damn well die there.)

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It has been a year since first I began to keep this Yuffie Observation diary. As an exercise in contemplation, I re-read the entire manuscript before composing this final entry. However, I confess that I learned more about myself than about her. In this past year, I have changed. From clipped sentences mighty paragraphs have proceeded, and from the cold register of a scientist has grown a new, more emotive language.

It has been a busy year. The things I have written about seem strange to me. I wrote about the Summer Festival in Wutai, but not about the covert infiltration mission the day afterwards, in which Yuffie staggered from point to point like a concussed dog. I do not know why I should have done this.

Moreover, it seems strange to me how _little_ I have learned about Yuffie. The Yuffie at the start of my diary is the same as the one at the end, despite the fact that the author has changed intrinsically. Perhaps it's because she changes everyday, and therefore stays exactly the same. That sounds like something she herself would say.

Overall, I regard this diary as a complete failure. It seems that in a year, I have learned nothing about her; only about myself, and myself is a subject I am well versed in. I must try harder next time.

_Dear Vinnypants,_

_Although you probably won't read this until you've screwed up **next** year's Super-Paedo-Stalker-Journal, have you ever thought you never had anything to learn in the first place? You might've learned a little more about yourself than you intended, but they say the man who knows himself is pretty damn boring, because he's got no hidden depths to explore and spends too much time thinking about himself. Whilst you **are** pretty boring, you've got more interesting things to think about than you. Like, say, me. And with all that time you must spend thinking about me (pervert), I'd say you haven't got much more about me to learn!_

_You might not believe it, of course. You've got a whole lot of grump and confidence issues in them thar leather jodhpurs, so I wouldn't be surprised. But if you don't know me, then why did you leave half a page free at the end of your diary, as if you knew I'd write in it?_

_But seriously, if I see you buying another notebook I'm burning it. Some of the stuff in here does **not** make me look good._

_Love, Yuffie 3_

_P.S There's a little trap in your birthday present this year. Hope you enjoy it, dork!_

October 13th. Jam trap in my birthday present. Ruined a perfectly good mantle. Am full of hubris.

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A/N: The final prompt, but not _quite_ the final note. Read on, folks...


	158. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

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He hadn't expected it to be like this. Although, he'd known it was coming. Or at least something like it. It was ridiculous. But wasn't that what their relationship was all about? He adjusted himself primly, and remembered how he'd gotten himself into this mess before finally striding out to meet the music and the laughing crowd of friends.

_She closed her gaping mouth delicately, closed the book she was reading. Too much time passed._

"_Of course I'll marry you, Vincent," she said, before her mouth curled into a grin. "On the condition that you wear the dress."_

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A/N: So, what's next? Well, as always, thanks are in order to everyone who read, everyone who reviewed, faved, and subscribed, to the countless internet denizens who threatened to marry me or fall in love with me if I continued, and the circle of friends I've found through this story. Thanks also to the massive collection of music serving as my novacaine throughout the entire thing, a body of artists ranging from Hugh Laurie all the way back to Beethoven. Although I've not always been the best or most reliable writer, it's been a pleasure to get here. From small beginnings, a great whacking collection has grown.

There's one last thing I'll do before finally calling this one complete, though. It occurs to me that I ran a poll a (long) while back, asking people what chapter they thought would best benefit from an expansion. The answer was One Missed Call. It's about time I got around to doing it. After that, the only thing left to do is tag all the fillers and removed chapters on at the end to serve as a reminder that nine times out of ten I am prone to suck, and call it a day.

I might not be as focused on fanfiction as I used to be, and I'll probably wait a while before doing anything in the FFVII fandom again. But let me assure you: it's been a pleasure, Yuffentine fans.

_~TheVulpineHero1_


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